


World So Cold

by The_Asset6



Series: The Light in the Shadows [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Animal as Major Character, Character Death, Comfort In Earlier Chapters, Darker Plot in Later Chapters, Descriptions of Death/Destruction, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Harry Potter AU, Hogwarts AU, Humor, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Depictions of Gore/Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Animals References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 102,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes was no different from any other young wizard—he’d done his time in Muggle school, gotten his Hogwarts letter, and was ready to begin a new adventure. Sure, there was the minor catch that he was the son of one of the most powerful potential future Ministers for Magic currently serving in public office, but it wasn’t something he talked about if he could help it. </p><p>The rest of the Wizarding world, however, can’t seem to talk about anything else, and not all of his mother’s ideas are as widely accepted among their fellow magical beings as she would hope. When a mysterious purist group called Hydra threatens the safety of both the magical and Muggle communities, Bucky quickly learns that in a world so cold, nothing is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Till the End of the Line (2004)

**Author's Note:**

> No fandom is complete without a library of Hogwarts AUs, so here is my contribution! (The title is a nod to the song "World So Cold" by Three Days Grace.) Not much of this fic will take place in North America, but here are a few terms you'll see repeatedly that you may not be familiar with:
> 
> Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - North American version of Hogwarts  
> Uagadou School of Magic - largest African version of Hogwarts  
> Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) - American version of the Ministry of Magic  
> No-Majs/No-Maj-borns - American version of Muggles/Muggleborns
> 
> These terms are taken directly from the Pottermore website, and you can find a wealth of information about them there. Please be advised: the setting here is based on the Harry Potter *books*, not the movies. You don't necessarily need to have read or watched either to understand this story, but if you're looking at universe continuity, it'll be from the books. I've done my best to make everything as accurate as possible, but if you see something, please don't hesitate to let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> Any unquoted sentences in italics are unspoken thoughts. Tags will be added later to avoid spoiling the story, so watch this space for updates. There will also be some time jumps; the year will be in the chapter title.
> 
> This story will update at least once a week, perhaps more if the editing process doesn't take long.
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the story!

Summer had always been Bucky’s favorite time of year. The sun was bright and warm, and it stayed out well into the evening so that he didn’t have to go inside. There was no school, so he could stay up as late as he wanted (until his mom told him he was keeping his baby sister up and had to stop playing, which _wasn’t fair_ ). On the weekends, the weather was perfect to beg his parents to go to Coney Island or spend the day at the beach. There were people _everywhere,_ and they were out enjoying the weather with smiles on their faces, which was a rare sight. Brooklyn in wintertime meant everyone hustling to get where they were going to hopefully warm up, but Brooklyn in the summer? That was when everything really came to life.

Unfortunately, that also meant the weather was just right for his stupid best friend to get himself into a stupid fight over something stupid.

Bucky ducked into the alleyway, his chest already heaving from running toward the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a body hitting the ground. It was always the same near the convenience store just at the end of their street: Steve would walk by, see some punk kid doing something they shouldn’t, and stick his big nose in where it didn’t belong. Two months ago, back when it _hadn’t_ been so warm outside, Bucky had found him in the same alley with a bloody nose and a bunch of random groceries littering the ground all around him. When Bucky started laying into him for picking fights he couldn’t finish— _again_ —he just said he couldn’t sit around and watch while some thugs took food off the shelves inside and shoved them in their puffy winter jackets without paying. The time before that, he’d been trying to stop some bullies from hustling a kid out of his lunch money a few blocks closer to their school. Bucky could only wonder what it was that Steve was fighting over this time.

His question was answered the moment he rounded the corner and made it past the huge dumpster hiding most of the alley from view, although he had heard the barking all the way down the street.

There was Steve, facing off against three kids at least twice his height with a mangy dog almost Steve’s size barking and whimpering a few steps behind him. Bucky couldn’t quite see Steve’s face, but from the way he was favoring his right ankle, it looked like he’d already taken a couple of tumbles. One of the bigger kids was shaking his head while the one at the front of their little gang said something to Steve that Bucky didn’t catch. As he approached behind them, he saw Steve straighten his thin shoulders and raise his fists again.

“I could do this all day,” he spat, glaring up at the kid who’d spoken to him before swinging _way_ too wide with his right arm.

Despite his concern for his friend, Bucky couldn’t help rolling his eyes: Steve could _always_ do this all day, till he couldn’t.

It was a stupid decision, really, one that would have gotten him in so much trouble if his mom had been around. He couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, though, not when Steve was about to get his head separated from his neck! Narrowing his eyes and screwing up his face in concentration, Bucky felt a sudden breeze as he glared down at the bully’s feet.

The latter caught Steve’s punch easily, but when he shifted forward to throw Steve back against the brick wall at the end of the alley, his left foot was yanked right out from under him as if by an invisible hand and he was the one who went sprawling instead. Steve tripped forward slightly but managed to detach himself in just enough time to regain his balance. While the other two kids were distracted, Bucky (who was much closer to their size than Steve) ran up behind the one on the right and jumped on his back, tackling him to the ground. The bully went down hard and, as he tried to figure out what had hit him, Bucky glanced at the dog and focused all his concentration again.

Right on cue, the animal growled and jumped forward, his teeth sinking into the forearm of the last one standing while Bucky sank his _fist_ into his bully’s _face_. The kid rolled over on top of him, and the air whooshed out of Bucky’s lungs in a painful gasp when he found himself trapped between the bigger body and the pavement, but it looked like there wouldn’t be any blows coming his way: the leader was regaining his feet but clearly still thrown off, and the one wearing the doggy bracelet was too busy shaking himself free and sprinting out of the alley with the other two (and the dog) hot on his heels.

Sometimes Muggles were just _too easy._

Bucky coughed a couple of times before he was able to fully draw breath again and managed to push himself up onto his knees, glaring at Steve through his bangs. “Seriously, Steve? Again?”

His best friend’s jaw clenched tightly the way it always did when Steve heard something he didn’t like, but he didn’t actually address Bucky’s rebuke. He simply brushed himself off, pretending that his ankle wasn’t bothering him and he didn’t have a nice bruise already blossoming over his left eye, and folded his arms. Then he was leveling a pretty impressive glare at Bucky considering his rather _unimpressive_ size.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky challenged, “So I should’ve let that guy crush you?”

There was a brief flicker of something behind Steve’s blue eyes. The lid of the dumpster behind Bucky gave a tiny shudder and Bucky could swear the temperature dropped a few degrees.

“I could’ve handled it. I had ‘im on the ropes,” Steve finally huffed, the magic around them dying down as he deliberately took a deep breath. Steve didn’t give him a chance to retort before he whispered fiercely, “’Sides, I’m not the one who used _magic_ on _No-Majs_!”

“We’re not old enough to know how to use magic yet—accidents happen,” argued Bucky, echoing his father’s excuse for when he did something magical in the heat of the moment at home. Steve was mad enough that Bucky didn’t bother trying to teasingly get him to call them “Muggles” instead of “No-Majs” like his mom had taught him.

Steve’s glare went from angry to unimpressed. “Bet your mom won’t see it that way.”

“Don’t you tell my ma!”

“Then stop _doing it_!”

“I couldn’t just let them hurt you!” Bucky exploded, his irritation finally getting the better of him. He admired Steve’s bravery and sense of justice—he _really did_. The fact that he was stubborn and hotheaded was something they needed to work on before he got himself killed, though, not that he _ever_ listened to Bucky about that. “It was a _little_ bit of magic— _tiny_! And I didn’t hurt ‘em.”

“The dog—“ began Steve, but Bucky cut him off.

“The dog would’ve done the same thing if there hadn’t been three of those guys,” he reasoned instead, brushing the dirt off his jeans and stumbling to his feet. “I’m not gonna say sorry. I’ve got your back, whether you want me to or not.”

For a minute, he thought Steve would keep fighting him on this, but he simply continued to glare daggers at him for a long time before finally deflating some. He pushed his hair off his forehead and shot Bucky a grudgingly grateful yet still exasperated look as he limped toward him.

“Just stop using your powers to help me,” he muttered, eyes on the ground. “You could get in trouble for that. I don’t want it to be my fault.”

Bucky just shrugged, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders in a disguised effort to steady him on his injured side. He knew he wasn’t fooling Steve, but his friend never appreciated when someone openly offered him help he didn’t want, regardless of whether he needed it. “It was my choice, so it’s not _your_ fault. And I’ll stop as soon as _you_ stop getting into it with guys like that.”

Steve’s shoulders stiffened. “They were trying to hurt a _dog_ , Buck.”

“I didn’t say do nothing!” Bucky went immediately on the defensive. He was already toeing the line of making Steve angrier and less likely to accept the small amount of help he was allowing Bucky to offer. “But you could’ve gotten a grown-up.”

“There wasn’t any time,” countered Steve dismissively.

“Sure thing, Stevie,” Bucky scoffed, recognizing an argument he wasn’t going to win.

In spite of his sour mood, Steve dug his skinny elbow into Bucky’s side and grumbled, “Jerk.” Bucky could hear the smile in his voice, though.

“Punk,” he shot back lightly as they exited the alley and moved down the street toward home.

It wasn’t that he thought Steve was wrong—it was cool that he was brave enough to fight for what he believed was right even when he had absolutely _no chance_ of winning. That was part of what made Steve such a good friend. He was smart and kind, he always tried to make the choice that was best for everyone, and he could be pretty sneaky about it if he really put his mind to it. But even for being almost eight years old, Steve was tiny, and he was always sick. If it wasn’t his asthma acting up, he had a cold; if he didn’t have a cold, he had a fever; if he didn’t have a fever, he had a full blown case of pneumonia and spent a few days in the Muggle hospital when every potion known to the Wizarding world didn’t work. In all the time they’d been friends—which their parents said was since they were _born_ and therefore _forever_ —Bucky was pretty sure Steve had been _in_ the hospital more often than he’d been _out_ of it. Even when he wasn’t sick, Steve wasn’t strong and he wasn’t fast. A punch that could bruise a normal guy could snap a guy like Steve in half.

It wasn’t that he thought Steve was wrong—it was just that he wished his best friend had the wherewithal to back it all up the way he pretended to.

As they made their way back up the street toward their houses, no one really paid them any mind. Anyone who knew little Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes knew that them being in a fight was really just a normal day of the week; anyone who didn’t was far too busy going about their own lives to be worried about a couple of kids.

Steve let out a disappointed groan as they came in sight of their neighboring brownstones, shaking his head and letting his blond hair fall back in his eyes. “Aw, man…”

Frowning, Bucky strained his eyes to see what had gotten Steve so down only to cringe at the sight of his mom’s car in the space outside the house. “I thought she was working a double?” he asked.

Steve always came over for dinner on days when his mom had to work two back-to-back shifts at the hospital in Manhattan and couldn’t get home early enough to cook or bring takeout. (She’d wanted to work in Brooklyn, but wizard hospitals were few and far between, so it was the best she could get.)

“Me too,” was Steve’s gloomy response. Bucky felt a pang of sympathy for him: if there was one thing Steve hated more than losing a fight, it was _telling his mother_ he’d been involved in one in the first place.

Steve started dragging his feet, but there was no way to stave off the inevitable. Bucky half-carried, half-dragged him up the front steps to the brownstone and rang the doorbell when Steve patted his pockets and gave him a look that clearly said he’d lost his key somewhere.

 _Probably in the alley_ , he thought, sighing internally.

There was half a second’s pause between the door opening and the high-pitched, “Steven Grant Rogers!” that threatened to deafen both of them. Steve flinched slightly under his arm, but managed to somehow meet his mother’s eyes.

“Hi, Ma.”

Bucky’s mom always said that if looks could kill, Sarah Rogers would be a serial killer, and he immediately felt bad for Steve as he was the sole recipient of said look.

“Don’t you 'hi, ma,' me,” huffed Sarah, ushering them inside and closing the door before surveying the two of them with her hands on her hips. “What. Happened.”

“There was a dog getting the crap kicked outta him.” Steve didn’t bother explaining the rest; it was nothing his mom couldn’t figure out herself.

“And so you stepped in the middle.”

“Yeah.”

“Between the dog and…?”

Steve cringed slightly, but it wasn’t a good idea to leave Sarah waiting when she was in a towering temper, so Bucky answered for him, “Some kids.”

Now the razor-sharp glare was on him. _Great_. “How _many_ kids?”

“…Three?”

Sarah’s face went from pink to an interesting shade of burgundy in less than two seconds flat, a new record.

“ _Three_ kids?! _Three_! And all bigger than you are, I’m sure.” She turned to Bucky for confirmation, and he nodded slowly under Steve’s betrayed sidelong glance. “Steven Grant Rogers, how many times do I have to tell you _not_ to go getting involved with things like this! One day it’s a punch in the face and the next you’re dead in an alley somewhere! Do you have _any idea how lucky you are_?”

The tirade went on a few more minutes until Sarah noticed Bucky shuffling slightly under Steve’s weight on his side and hustled them into the kitchen. She was still grumbling under her breath about _this kid being the death of me_ as she hauled Steve off the ground and sat him on the kitchen counter, leaving the room to get the first aid kit out of the downstairs bathroom. The boys glanced at each other in mutual commiseration, their eyes immediately dropping to the ground as Sarah returned and set the kit down beside Steve with a huff.

For a while, the only noises in the house were the air conditioning and the sound of bandages being cut and wrapped around Steve’s ankle. Sarah had retrieved a bag of peas from the freezer that Steve was holding to his rapidly blackening eye while she worked, and Bucky took a seat at the table as he watched the proceedings. After what felt like an eternity, Sarah finally seemed to calm down enough to ask how exactly Steve had managed to fight off three bigger kids _and_ come home with only a twisted ankle and minor cuts and bruises to show for it.

Steve and Bucky exchanged a furtive glance, but it was enough for Sarah to get the picture.

“Oh, _Bucky_ ,” she sighed heavily, shaking her head. Her focus was still on taping the bandage on Steve’s leg, so at least he didn’t get the full effect of her disappointment. She was a witch and could easily heal Steve if she wanted to, but Sarah had long since made it a house rule that if Steve came home a bloody mess after picking fights, he would suffer through the aftermath the Muggle way. She probably thought it would be effective, but the stubbornness of Sarah Rogers was nothing compared to the absolute mulishness of her son.

“It was pretty much over by the time I got there,” Bucky hedged, not meeting her eyes when she turned around.

“Uh-huh.” Suspicion laced her tone and then there it was—the trademark _Don’t You Lie to Me, James Buchanan Barnes_ expression. “So I’m guessing by the time you got there, they were just talking it out.”

Steve coughed to hide his giggle. _Traitor._

Mumbling under his breath, Bucky decided to change his story: “Okay, maybe I helped a little.”

“A little?”

“…Y-yes?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow at him, just waiting. They always broke—it was just a matter of time—but Bucky refused to do it this time. Nope. No way. Not him.

_…Man…_

“They were gonna make _dog food_ outta Steve!” he exclaimed when he couldn’t take any more of _That Look_.

Sarah met him blow for blow. “So you took on _three boys_ practically by yourself to help him?!”

“W-well, I… I mean, I kinda… It wasn’t just… They weren’t that—“ She cut off his stammering with wide eyes, and it was times like these when Bucky was _positive_ Sarah could read minds.

“James. Buchanan. Barnes. Do not _tell_ me you used magic on those No-Maj boys.”

Bucky intelligently kept his fat mouth _shut_.

“James.”

Apparently she wasn’t going to let him avoid the subject, though. “You said not to tell you,” he murmured, flinching when Sarah threw the bandages back into the first aid kid and slammed the lid shut. Steve’s only visible eye was flicking back and forth between his raging mother and his soon-to-be-eviscerated best friend.

Absolute silence followed the exchange, not even the air conditioning willing to risk Sarah’s wrath by breaking it. Whatever she was thinking, though, Bucky figured she must be too angry with him to speak because she chose instead to take the first aid kit back to the bathroom and then check Steve’s eye as if he weren’t even in the room. Bucky couldn’t look at her, couldn’t meet Steve’s eye, and he surveyed his shoelaces like somehow they had the answers to getting out of the punishment that would undoubtedly await him at home when Steve’s mom told his parents.

The thing was, Bucky barely used magic. There were those few times when he was feeling strongly about something when stuff would just _happen_ —like the time when his mother’s favorite vase had shattered into a million little pieces because his baby sister Becca had chewed the head off his teddy bear a couple of years back. (Thank goodness for repairing spells or he would have been in deep trouble.) That was normal, though; even Steve had accidents like that recently now that his powers had finally shown up. But except for those few incidents, he never tried to use magic on purpose, especially not when Muggles were around. That was the first thing any kid from a Wizarding family learned growing up: don’t talk about magic where a Muggle might hear you, and don’t ever perform magic on or around Muggles unless it’s an emergency.

Hadn’t this been an emergency, though? Steve could have been really badly hurt if he hadn’t used magic, the small amount that it was. The two of them never would have been able to get away from those bullies if Bucky hadn’t; Steve wasn’t much good in a fight anyway, but a bad ankle would have left him vulnerable and more likely to get _worse_. That had to count for something, right?

They weren’t going to haul him away like they did to bad wizards who used their powers on Muggles…were they?

Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed when Steve left the room to change out of his filthy clothes and Sarah pulled out the seat next to his at the table, sitting down with a heavy sigh. A finger under his chin prompted him to raise his eyes to meet hers, but he was surprised to find they didn’t look angry. Sarah just looked tired.

“I understand why you did what you did,” she began with a small, reproachful smile. “You’ve always looked after him, and I hope you know how much that means to me. But Bucky… You can’t start going down that path. You’re going to grow up, go to school, and learn how to really use your powers, and then the Magical Congress isn’t going to care what reason you had.”

“But…”

“And just think about what would have happened if something had gone wrong. What if you hadn’t been able to control your powers? What if one of those boys got seriously hurt?”

Bucky’s gaze fell back to his shoes. He honestly _hadn’t_ thought about that, not when he had Steve to worry about; he figured if he was concentrating enough, what he wanted was just going to _happen_. The thought left him feeling mildly nauseous.

“’m sorry,” he whispered, embarrassed to find his eyes tearing up involuntarily. “I just didn’t want Steve to get hurt.”

Sarah nodded at the edge of his vision, blurry through the tears he was desperately trying to keep from falling. “I know you didn’t, and I know you two would do anything for each other. You just need to _think_ before you act, Bucky. Nothing happened this time, but that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. You understand?”

Sniffling, Bucky muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, come on, none of that.” She put her hands on his cheeks and shook his face from side to side until he laughed wetly, not mentioning it when he hastily wiped his eyes just seconds before Steve hobbled back into the room. “Now I’m sure your parents will be wondering where you’ve gotten to, so let’s get you home.”

Sarah gave his leg a gentle pat and rose to her feet alongside him, smiling knowingly at Bucky’s confused frown. He only lived right next door, so he wouldn’t need a ride or an escort. Which meant…

“Oh, no.” Grinning, Sarah shook her head at his widening eyes and horrified look of realization. “You’re not getting off the hook _that_ easy.”

 

***

 

Three weeks.

No computer. No hanging out or sleepovers with Steve. No video games, movies, or television. No beach or Coney Island.

For three weeks.

“Believe me, James Buchanan Barnes, that is _nothing_ compared to what you deserve,” his mother had screamed at him after Sarah told her what Bucky had done.

“Easy, Winnie, or everyone in Brooklyn will hear.” His father’s warning had practically fallen on deaf ears, and his mother’s ire found a new target mid-rant.

“George, by the time I’m through, everyone in bloody _London_ will hear.”

He’d had his doubts, but Bucky was surprised to find his mom had done her best to make good on that promise. All he could do was sit quietly on the couch and stare at his feet while his mom yelled at him, a few obscenities even finding their way into her usually prim and proper English-accented diatribe. By the time she was through (almost two hours after she started—his dad was the one to finally leave the room to call for pizza), Bucky had been flayed up one side and down the other, then sentenced to three weeks of being grounded in his room.

This was one of those times when he thought how great it would be to _not_ live in a magical household. If he were a Muggle, he could have snuck out anyway—his dad was out job hunting now that he wasn’t in the army anymore, his mom Apparated to the Ministry of Magic in London most days of the week, and Sarah had a pretty steady schedule of overtime—but he knew better than to try in his house. One simple Tracking Spell meant his mom could check in on him any time and know exactly where he was, and he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

So he faced three weeks of marathon wall-staring, comic book-reading, and banging-head-against-desking. It also meant he got to spend some quality time with Becca, who was just about to turn three and could actually be kind of entertaining even if she _did_ still like stupid baby toys. (Bucky refused to tell anyone, including Steve, but a part of him still enjoyed playing with the hand-me-down toys that had long since migrated from his toy box to Becca’s room, and he may or may not have squirreled away a few of his favorite stuffed animals to his own closet. Everyone just thought he loved playing with his baby sister, which he guessed was half right.)

Unless it was to see if he had learned his lesson, his parents mostly left him to his own devices to find things to do that weren’t against his grounding. That was why, just over a week into his parent-mandated exile, he was surprised to see both of his parents standing in the doorway of his room, Becca in their dad’s arms.

His mom gave him a soft smile and stepped inside, sitting down by his feet on the bed while his dad remained hovering in the doorway. “Bucky, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Okay,” whispered Bucky with great trepidation. When a conversation with his parents started out with “there’s something we need to talk about,” it had never ended well in the past.

“You know how I’m from across the ocean in England?” Bucky nodded. He’d only asked her about twelve _million_ times over the years if he would get to see England someday since the time they went when he was a baby really didn’t count. Obviously she remembered, because the next thing she asked was, “How do you feel about spending some time there?”

Bucky immediately bounced up onto his knees from where he’d been morosely slumped against the headboard making headway on beating his previous wall-staring record (eight minutes), excitement bursting through his chest. “Awesome! Can we really go? When—this summer?!”

His mother laughed, but it wasn’t her usual one. There was something tentative and sad about it, but Bucky hardly noticed in his exhilaration. “Yes, this summer, baby.”

“This is _so cool_! I can’t wait!”

“I know, baby. Now, Bucky…”

“Can I tell Steve? I know I’m grounded, and I _promise_ I’ll come _right_ back up here, but can I _pleeeeeease_ go tell h—“

“Darling, hold on a moment and listen,” interrupted his mother gently, putting her hands on his shoulders to calm his bouncing. She glanced back at his dad before she pressed on, “I know you’re so excited to go, but… This isn’t going to be a vacation.”

Blinking, Bucky frowned in puzzlement. “Huh?”

“Baby, we’re _moving_ to England.”

“…M-moving?” he asked, his stomach churning suddenly while the rest of his senses went numb.

“Yes, moving. Now that your father isn’t stationed here anymore, we discussed going back to London. That way I can be closer to the Ministry, and he’s already found a job there in the city—“

“But…b-but what about Steve and Sarah? What about school and my friends?” Bucky didn’t mean to start crying; he didn’t even realize his eyes had been getting misty until the tears were trailing fast and hot down his cheeks. But Brooklyn was _home_ —they’d always lived here, and he thought they always _would_. If they went to England, he’d have to leave everything and everyone behind, and he didn’t want to do that!

“Oh, darling,” cooed his mom, pulling him in to sit on her lap and stroking his hair as he cried into her shoulder. “You’ll get to go to a new school and make new friends… In a couple of years, you’ll get your Hogwarts letter—“

“But you said we’d go to Ilvermorny!” he hiccoughed roughly.

“I know, baby, but Hogwarts is an amazing school too. That’s where I went, and you’re going to _love_ it. And you’ll still get to see Steve—we’ll come back and visit, and maybe we can get him and Sarah to come stay with us in London. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Steve could stay with us over the summer holidays, and you two have the internet to talk as much as you want during the school term. When you go to Hogwarts, you can send owls to each other…”

Bucky stopped listening as his sobs reached their zenith, and he couldn’t bring himself to _care_ if he was acting like a baby. It wasn’t fair! He and Steve had already made so many plans for when they went to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—they were going to take all the same classes, be in the same house, and play Quidditch together (if Steve’s lungs got with the program). There was no way Sarah would let Steve come stay with them all summer, Bucky thought, not with how sick Steve got all the time. Mr. Rogers had died in Afghanistan not even three years ago, and Sarah was protective of her son as the only family she had left—she’d never let him go all the way to another country for _months_ even if it _was_ Bucky’s family he was staying with.

He could feel his dad rubbing his back as he wept. He could hear his mom whispering reassurances that everything was going to be okay, that he’d get used to their new home and things would turn out just fine.

He could feel his heart breaking as he wondered who he was going to be without Steve Rogers by his side.

 

***

 

“But you can’t just _leave_!”

“’S not like I have much of a choice, Steve.”

Bucky’s parents must have felt pretty bad about the veritable bomb they had dropped on him and his grounding was prematurely revoked, so he sat with Steve on the floor of Steve’s bedroom, staring moodily at his best friend’s wall since he didn’t have to stare at his own anymore. The Barneses had gone over to have dinner with Sarah and Steve, partially because it was just what they did every now and again, but mostly to tell them the news. Sarah had been happy for them, although Bucky was getting good enough at differentiating between her happy smiles and her sad smiles to see that it was the latter, and asked if he was excited to get to see a new country.

“I’d rather stay here,” had been his grumpy answer, and he’d responded to his parents’ scolding with the best pout he could muster.

Steve shared his opinion, and the first thing out of his mouth when they retreated to his room was some… _colorful_ language that Bucky knew would get him a smack on the back of the head if Sarah had heard him utter something like that in her presence.

“Maybe you can ask your parents if you can stay with us?” Steve suggested, desperately trying to come up with a solution that wouldn’t end with having an entire ocean between them despite the fact that they hadn’t managed to come up with anything yet. “We’ve got plenty of room, and Ma loves you. You could go to London for the summer and then come back here to go to school.”

Bucky shook his head with a heavy sigh. “I already tried that. Mom shut me down.”

“But she already Apparates _every day_ —they could come see you anytime they wanted.”

“That’s what I thought!” Bucky groused. “But she just said the _change of scenery will be good for you, James_.” He imitated his mother’s accent with a slightly nasal, obnoxiously superior tone he reserved for only the _worst_ things she ever said to him.

Grumbling under his breath, Steve balled up the paper he was trying to sketch on and threw it at his trash can in frustration. Bucky would have teased him for missing his target from two feet away any other day. “So go on a vacation.”

Bucky just grunted his agreement, letting his head drop back against the edge of Steve’s mattress to stare up at the ceiling. Little stars winked down at him, and Bucky couldn’t help smiling just a tiny bit. Those had been there for as long as he could remember, since they were still little enough to be scared of monsters in the closet and Sarah had found a spell for the ultimate night-light. The little stars were invisible to Muggles just in case anyone saw through the window outside, but offered just enough light to see by in the room on their own. They’d stared at those stars every night Bucky had slept over at Steve’s house, giggling and chatting into the early hours of the morning in an attempt to see who could stay awake longest (a contest they could never figure out who won).

Soon those stars would blink down at just Steve 3,458 miles from where Bucky was. (He’d Googled it.)

He wasn’t quite sure why that thought made him ask, but he honestly couldn’t help himself as he avoided Steve’s eyes and tried to get his voice to work a few times. “We’ll still… We’re still gonna talk ‘n stuff, right?”

“Of course!” exclaimed Steve immediately. Bucky turned his head to see that Steve’s eyes were alight with a fierce gleam. “You’re my best friend. I’m with you till the end of the line, Buck. You know that.”

They’d been saying that to each other for years. It started as a joke the first time they’d tried to go on the subway by themselves (which neither of their parents were really aware of) and accidentally missed every stop in their excitement until they reached the literal end of the line. Since Bucky was the one who had said, in all of his six-year-old wisdom, that he knew which stop was theirs, Steve had teased him mercilessly that he supposed it was a good thing they were best friends because he was the only person who’d be willing to ride with Bucky to the end of the line. After that, it had become their special way of telling each other that they’d always be there, that they’d always be best friends no matter what.

Bucky couldn’t think of a time he needed to hear that more than right now, and he sniffled softly before crawling across the floor on his knees and throwing his arms around Steve’s skinny shoulders. The two held on tight to each other as if that could somehow keep Bucky from going anywhere.

“Yeah. Till the end of the line, pal.”


	2. Letters (2007)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who read "Deliverance" may have noticed I am weak when it comes to waiting until the day I said I was going to update. I've changed the time frame on this to once or twice a week since I have a great deal of the first part already written.
> 
> Dragots - North American magical money
> 
> *Tags have been updated, and this chapter contains a time jump!

> _Dear Mr. Barnes,_
> 
> _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books, equipment, and guidelines for behavior. You must have all requisite supplies prior to the start of term._
> 
> _Term begins on the first of September. Please send confirmation of your receipt of this letter and plans to attend via owl before July 31 st._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Nicholas J. Fury_
> 
> _Headmaster_

 

Bucky’s mom gave a squeak of excitement and clapped her hands while his father smiled proudly after Bucky read the letter aloud. It didn’t seem to matter that they’d known he was going to end up going to a Wizarding school ever since he was _born_ (unless he turned out to be a Squib); their excitement was still nearly tangible in the room. As soon as he’d folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope with his school supply list, his mother scooped him into a bigger hug than she’d given him in years.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” she exclaimed _right_ in his ear, squeezing so hard he thought his rib cage might just collapse.

Cringing, Bucky returned the hug while simultaneously grumbling, “Maaaa…”

“Sorry, sorry!” She jumped back but was still grinning as she straightened his shirt. “I know it’s not _cool_ to hug the woman who spent twelve hours _giving birth to you_ —“

“Gross, Mom!”

“—but this is a big day!”

His dad, chuckling, put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and shot his wife a fondly long-suffering look. “Give the kid a break, Winnie. We _are_ very proud of you, though, Buck. I hope you know that.” He gave Bucky a quick squeeze before letting go, earning a playful smack to the shoulder from Bucky’s mom.

“Yes, well, of course we are. Now, there’s _so much_ to be done. We need to send an owl back straightaway to let them know you’re coming. Then there’s the matter of getting all your supplies…” She plucked the envelope out of his hands to pull out and scan his book list, nodding distractedly as his dad pointed out that they still had plenty of time to get it all done.

For a moment, Bucky considered telling them he didn’t get what there was to be _proud_ of. It’s not like he’d passed some magical test or anything—the letter just sort of came with the territory.

He waited a few more minutes to be sure his parents were sufficiently engrossed in his letter before making his escape up to his bedroom, ruffling Becca’s hair on his way past where she was watching television on the couch. Her squawk of indignation followed him up the stairs as he turned into his room and closed the door behind him. He made a beeline for his computer, hit the power button, flicked on the webcam, and spent the next few minutes spinning around in his desk chair while the machine booted up. This room was smaller than his bedroom in Brooklyn, but he’d found out quickly when they moved to London that pretty much _everything_ was smaller here than back in the States. He got used to it.

In the three years since they’d moved away from New York, Bucky had come to see this place as something like home. His walls were plastered with posters of Quidditch teams (he refused to admit that he had made a little shrine of posters and action figures for the Galactic Guardians, but they were _the best_ Quidditch team in the history of the sport!), bands, and pictures from vacations back to Brooklyn. Muggle school was just as boring as it had been before, but he’d made a couple of friends he hoped he could keep in touch with after he started Hogwarts. He’d explored the city with his mom, dad, and Becca—in a lot of ways, it was pretty similar to New York. There was always something to do and lots of art and people all over the place—they even had a theatre district just like Broadway, which his mom gushed over and dragged them to _constantly_.

But separate from all the Muggle things that made London pretty cool, the most amazing part of moving there was the Wizarding community. Thanks to some law he’d remembered his mom telling him about in the States, Muggles and wizards didn’t really have much contact for a couple hundred years—they weren’t friends, they didn’t get married (until pretty recently, anyway, otherwise his family would have ended up very differently), and they didn’t try to work together on anything. In the rest of the world, apparently that wasn’t the case. The Ministry actually worked with the Muggle government, according to his mom, and there were places all around the city where wizards in particular could go to hang out without having to hide. Diagon Alley had quickly become one of Bucky’s favorite places; it was even somewhere his parents didn’t mind him wandering around by himself to explore the various things the Wizarding world offered. In Brooklyn, they’d kept away from any underground places catering to just wizards (which were all seedy at best, his mom had said), but here it was a normal part of life. They were used to living in plain sight of Muggles, and Bucky had to admit that that was a really cool change. (Learning the new currency, however, was just annoying—it took him forever to remember how to count out Galleons instead of Dragots.)

Still, much as he liked London and called it home, Brooklyn had always been his _first_ home and they hadn’t gone back nearly as often as his mom had promised back when they first left.

Tapping his foot impatiently, Bucky whirled his chair back around to find that his computer finally finished loading and clicked the icon to open Skype. With his best friend thousands of miles away, he’d had to get really good at using technology pretty quickly, although his mother still insisted to this day that he could just as easily use the Floo Network.

“No one uses the Floo Network anymore, Ma,” he’d scoffed at the suggestion. His mom had just rolled her eyes and muttered about _kids today_.

Wednesday nights had become his weekly Steve night, and their families knew not to interrupt them when they were Skyping unless the world was ending or something. They tried to talk as much as they could over the weekends as well, but that was more hit or miss. Wednesdays were something they could commit to even though it was a school night, and Bucky found that the last three years’ worth of Thursdays were generally miserable during the school year because he tended to stay up so late talking to Steve the night before. (His father had issued a strict curfew that Bucky had to be off the computer and in bed by ten-thirty on Wednesdays during the school year, but it hadn’t really stuck.)

They rarely had any real news to tell each other and basically just spent hours recounting the mundane events of their week, but Bucky actually _had_ news this time even if a large part of him still wished he would be going to Ilvermorny rather than Hogwarts.

Once he was logged in, Bucky immediately called Steve, who picked up after a few seconds and appeared on his screen with his trademark Skype Night Grin. While Bucky had grown a lot in the last couple of years, Steve was still just as skinny as he always had been. He’d grown a couple of inches, but his stature still made him look a lot younger than a kid who was about to turn eleven. Still, some things had changed: he didn’t get sick quite so often anymore, and when he did potions usually wiped it out.

The fighting was still a problem, though, and without Bucky to back him up, he’d appeared on the webcam looking like premium ground beef more than once. It was a work in progress.

“Hey, Buck!”

“Hi, Steve,” Bucky greeted him, trying his best to smile brightly in return. It obviously didn’t work, because Steve’s expression automatically turned serious and marginally concerned.

“What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

Steve scoffed, shooting him his most unimpressed look. “Please. You look like when Becca chewed off Bucky Bear’s head.”

Bucky Bear was Steve’s nickname for the teddy bear Bucky had had _since he was born_ and was therefore _entirely justified_ in being upset about the potential destruction of, _thank you very much_. “I do not.”

“You’re just not crying this time.”

“I didn’t cry!”

“You were so crying,” jeered Steve, and Bucky flipped him the finger right up close to the camera lens, making the blond snigger.

Lifting his nose high in the air, Bucky mustered all the dignity he could when he retorted, “I was a child, Steven.”

“You’re _still_ a child, _James_.”

“Whatever, punk,” he replied with a roll of his eyes, but his smile came more easily now. Talking to Steve never failed to lift his spirits no matter what had put them in the toilet, even if it was only a little bit.

Steve simply grinned back at him for a moment before his smile toned down a few notches and that slightly worried look came back. Tilting his head to the side, he gently steered them back to the conversation Bucky had been avoiding.

“Seriously, Buck, what’s up?”

Rocking back in his chair, Bucky looked up at his ceiling instead of Steve and quietly admitted, “Got my Hogwarts letter.”

“That’s great! Congrats,” Steve immediately cheered through the speakers, and Bucky lowered his gaze back down to the screen to see that his smile truly did look entirely genuine.

_Good thing one of us thinks this is good news._

“Thanks.” He tried to go for gratitude, but his appreciation fell pretty flat. That made Steve’s eyebrows fly up so far it was a wonder they didn’t vanish into his hair.

“You don’t sound very excited,” he observed carefully.

Bucky shrugged. “I mean, I _am_ , yeah… It’s just… I don’t know, I always thought we’d go to school together, that’s all.”

Frowning, Steve pointed out, “Yeah, but wizards in England _always_ go to—“

“I know,” interrupted Bucky with a frustrated sigh. He didn’t want to be mad at Steve, especially over something that wasn’t his fault, but he really couldn’t help giving the irritation he’d begun feeling as soon as he’d seen that letter on the dining room table some room to breathe. “Still.”

As always, Steve knew what he was trying to say without him needing to articulate it and nodded sympathetically. It was _real_ now. He’d been able to ignore it for the last couple of years, but it was actually happening now and there was no way to stop it. Sure, you could get a waiver to go to a different Wizarding school, but those were usually for pretty major reasons like wanting to be in a particular program that only _that_ school offered or something. There was no way he would get one of those, not even with his mom having been appointed Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic earlier in the year. Actually, _that_ more than anything solidified the fact that he was going to Hogwarts and it was _final_.

Bucky refused to let that ruin his Wednesday Steve Night, however, and took a deep breath to steady himself and get back in a better frame of mind. His smile was only slightly strained this time when he looked back at Steve on the screen and asked, “What about you? Have you gotten your Ilvermorny letter yet?”

Steve’s eyes darted away from the camera a couple of times before he muttered a quick, “Yeah, I, uh… I got a letter. Yesterday.”

“Awesome,” Bucky congratulated him with the most sincere smile he could manage. Steve only spoke like this when he was nervous, upset, or lying. This was good news, though, and the envelope he flashed before the camera told Bucky he wasn’t lying, so he could only assume Steve was trying to be sensitive to the fact that Bucky wasn’t as excited as he should be by deemphasizing his own enthusiasm.

_Great. Way to be a real jerk._

Struggling to find a way to lighten the mood, Bucky smirked. “So my mom’s already freaking out about shopping for school supplies and everything.”

Steve barked a laugh. “Seriously? We’ve still got, like, over two months!”

“That’s what my dad told her, but I swear, if we could have gone to Diagon Alley tonight, we’d already be there.”

Bucky continued to regale Steve with a slightly hyperbolic account and imitation of his mom’s reaction to his letter while Steve giggled uncontrollably at the mental image, which contagiously left Bucky in stitches as well. Once they’d both settled enough to get their breath back, Steve chortled and shook his head.

“My mom was pretty cool about it compared to yours.”

“Really?” Bucky mused, frowning. “I totally would have thought she’d be just as bad.”

Shrugging, Steve surmised, “She’s probably too worried I’ll drop dead as soon as I get there to be too excited about it.”

Bucky winced faintly, but he couldn’t deny that there was something of a point there. Although he’d gotten considerably better as they got older, Steve still had his health issues. Just a few months ago, he’d ended up in the hospital when he passed out after an asthma attack at school and didn’t have his inhaler. Bucky had gone out of his mind with worry when Sarah had texted him to let him know, but his parents insisted that everything was going to be fine and they _absolutely did not have to Apparate to Brooklyn on a school night, James Buchanan Barnes._

Still, they’d come to an unspoken agreement years ago that they didn’t talk about Steve’s health stuff more than strictly necessary (even if Bucky _had_ carried an extra emergency inhaler with him every day for _years_ in case Steve forgot his), so Bucky expertly evaded that conversation.

“Nah, she’s probably just worried about you having a wand next time you see a bully look at someone funny,” he chuckled instead. Even Steve couldn’t help smiling guiltily.

“It wouldn’t be _that_ bad.”

Nodding, Bucky admitted, “True. Least then you’d stand a chance in a fight.”

“Hey!”

They continued laughing and talking well into the early hours of the morning for Bucky (it was still late at night for Steve), and by the time they disconnected, Bucky felt better than he had since getting that stupid letter. The thought lingered in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t have his Wednesday Steve Nights anymore once he went to Hogwarts (unless he got off his high horse and actually used the Floo Network, if they were even allowed to), but he shoved it aside for now as he got into bed. They still had almost three months before that would happen, which left them plenty of time to talk all they wanted and maybe even guilt Bucky’s parents into letting him stay with Steve in Brooklyn for a couple of weeks the way they’d been hoping to for Steve’s birthday. They’d make it work—they had so far.

With that comforting thought in mind, Bucky rolled over and drifted off to sleep, finally allowing himself to wonder briefly about what Hogwarts was going to be like.

 

***

 

Somehow, Winifred Barnes managed to last a whole week before she finally got around to taking Bucky shopping for his school supplies. Mostly it had to do with the fact that there was some kind of big meeting of wizards from a bunch of countries happening that she just couldn’t miss, but Bucky wasn’t exactly complaining. He felt a little better about the whole Hogwarts thing after talking to Steve, yet it still gave him misgivings when he thought about it too much. So he’d put it out of his mind as best he could and focused on the good things for now. He and Steve had even managed to Skype each other Saturday _and_ Sunday, a rare oddity, and got a “we’ll see” from Bucky’s parents about going to stay with Steve and Sarah in Brooklyn before the end of the summer. For now, it looked like that was as good as it was going to get.

By the time his mom told him they were going to be heading to Diagon Alley, Bucky had mostly been able to forget about his letter and all it entailed. Reality came crashing down on top of him in that moment, though, and he’d reluctantly grabbed his Hogwarts letter to peruse the school supply list attached.

Most of it was nothing he wouldn’t expect—cauldrons, scales, a wand, the usual wizard fare. He was crossing his fingers that his parents might let him bring a pet, but it was apparently going to be another dreaded “we’ll see” scenario. As he read through the behavior guidelines, though, he was disgruntled to see that the school didn’t allow any Muggle technology whatsoever.

“I can’t bring my cell phone?!” he’d exclaimed the night before their trip, completely aghast at the concept. He’d at least hoped that he could text Steve if they couldn’t use the internet.

His dad had immediately taken the list out of his hand with a frown and read over the rules, but his mom was obviously already aware of the situation and had calmly explained, “You won’t need it there.”

“But Ma—“

“No buts,” she’d cut him off with a sternly raised eyebrow. “It won’t work there anyway, and besides, you’ll have owls if you need to send messages. Or you could just _use the_ _Floo Network_.”

Honestly, there was just no living with her some days.

The following day found them walking along the sidewalk just off Charing Cross Road toward the Leaky Cauldron, his mom leading the way with Becca’s hand held firmly in hers. Bucky followed along next to his father, glancing into the windows of the Muggle shops and restaurants that lined the streets. A great thing about London was that the weather usually wasn’t quite as hot during the summer, which meant that walking around outside didn’t mean sweating buckets. It was great…unless you wanted to go to the beach.

Bucky spent most of the walk lost in thought until he felt something bump into his left arm and squinted up at his dad, who had apparently been watching him mope.

“You know,” he began after a second, turning his eyes ahead to watch where they were walking. “For a kid who’s about to go to a school where you get to learn magic, you sure are pretty quiet about it.”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Bucky shoved his hands as far into his jacket pockets as they could go and stared at the ground. “Got nothin’ to say.”

His dad hummed without answering. They kept walking for a couple of minutes before he spoke again. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain best friend, would it?”

A glance at his dad’s face told Bucky he wasn’t mad, but he had that little line between his eyebrows he always got when he was worried. _Great, first Steve can’t talk about Ilvermorny and now this… Pull it together, Barnes!_

“I just wanted things to be different,” evaded Bucky without meeting his father’s eyes. A moment passed before he felt his dad’s arm around his shoulders pulling him into his side as they walked. Bucky didn’t hug him around the middle (that was for little kids—he was practically grown up now), but for a second he really wanted to.

“I know you did,” breathed his dad so quietly Bucky almost didn’t hear him.

Biting his lip, Bucky nodded into his side before whispering, “I miss home.”

He’d never told his parents that. How could he? His mom was so happy here: it was where she’d grown up and now that she lived so close to work, she could be around a little more often. Becca had taken to London like a fish to water, but she’d been too little when they left Brooklyn to leave much of anything behind. Bucky wasn’t quite sure about his dad, but he missed Brooklyn. He missed going to Coney Island and Rockaway Beach, seeing Steve every day, going to school with the friends he’d made when he was little. All of that was gone, and even though London felt like home now, it wasn’t _home_ home. It wasn’t _New York_ home.

He couldn’t exactly say that out loud, though, and he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake when his dad didn’t answer him right away. With slight trepidation, Bucky angled his head up a bit to catch a glimpse of his father’s face and was just in time to see the sad expression his dad quickly rearranged into something a little less morose under his son’s gaze.

After that, he got a smile and a kiss on the top of his head.

“I know, Buck. I miss it too.”

 

***

 

“First years are _not_ allowed to have their own brooms, James. You _know_ that.”

“But if I’m gonna play Quidditch, I need to practice!”

“First years don’t play on the house teams either.”

“What?!”

His mom didn’t bother answering him, which made it clear the subject was settled, and walked straight past Quality Quidditch Supplies without so much as a backwards glance. Bucky made a loud noise of disapproval— _not_ a whine—and stomped along in her wake, arms folded tight across his chest.

They’d gotten just about everything he needed and visited nearly every shop in Diagon Alley in the process, including a stop at Ollivander’s _for his very first wand_ —which his mother had excitedly informed the old man who ran the store no less than seven times. He’d tried six wands (and caused enough damage that his father had actually tried to pay extra but was kindly turned away and everything magically repaired) before walking out with an eleven-inch cedar with a phoenix feather core. According to the old man, it was a very good combination: loyalty and strength.

Bucky just nodded and decided to take his word for it.

By the time they’d covered everything on the list, it was well past noon and Becca was agitatedly tugging at their mother’s hand every time they passed one of the many colorful restaurants, so they decided it was about time they found something to eat anyway. They popped into the Leaky Cauldron for a brief lunch before heading back into Diagon Alley, his mother insisting that she had been meaning to visit Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions but hadn’t wanted to while they were getting Bucky fitted for his school robes. Bucky made to follow her inside but was stopped by his father’s hand on his shoulder.

“Winnie, why don’t you and Becca take a look at robes while Bucky and I walk around a bit,” he suggested. By the smirk on his mother’s face, Bucky figured this wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“That’s fine, darling. We won’t be long, but how about we meet you at Florean Fortescue’s when we’re all finished for some ice cream?”

The words had barely left her mouth before Becca gave a little gasp of excitement and hopped up and down in anticipation. Even Bucky couldn’t help but grin—Fortescue’s had the best ice cream _ever_.

“Sounds like a plan,” his father agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, Bucky.”

They waved as his mom and Becca disappeared into the shop and turned to rejoin the flow of foot traffic heading down the main stretch of Diagon Alley. All of Bucky’s Hogwarts things were with his mom, who had come prepared with a bag and a well-cast Extension Charm, so they were free to browse the shops without being weighed down by a pewter cauldron and a ridiculous number of heavy textbooks.

It was always funny walking around with his dad, who was not exactly the most Muggley Muggle that ever Muggled, but he had been pretty close before meeting Bucky’s mom the way she described it. As such, he always got just as excited as Bucky over new magical things he’d never seen before; it was something they shared while his mom just shook her head and commented that apparently she had _three_ children instead of just two. His dad was never ashamed of it, though, and Bucky had to admire that.

The two had been so deep in conversation as they compared the specs on the newest line of Firebolt racing brooms to the last Nimbus model that Bucky didn’t notice his father had stopped until the latter took hold of his elbow and pulled him out of the flow of shoppers. Puzzled, Bucky frowned up at him before reading the sign of the shop they’d stopped at: the Magical Menagerie.

“What’re we doing here, Dad?” he asked, trying not to let the little glimmer of hope spread too far.

His dad shrugged exaggeratedly and looked over his shoulder into the shop. “ _Well_ , we haven’t exactly done anything to celebrate you getting your Hogwarts letter yet, and they _did_ say you can bring a pet with you…”

Bucky didn’t care if he looked like Becca and people stared as they passed—he couldn’t stop himself from jumping up and down and grabbing at his father’s shoulders as he laughed at Bucky’s antics.

“Really?! You’re serious?”

“I’m serious,” his dad confirmed, teasingly pinching Bucky’s cheek the way he always _hated_ but it didn’t _matter_ because _his dad was gonna let him get a pet_!

“Thanks, Dad, you’re the best!” he declared, throwing his arms around his father’s middle and hugging him tightly.

“Tell me something I don’t know. Now listen a second.” His dad pushed him a step back and squatted down to his level to look him in the eye, still smiling but more seriously now. “This is going to be _your_ pet. That means that the only way this is going to work is if _you_ are the one taking care of it.”

“Okay, okay—“

“Uh-uh, just listen. That means feeding it, washing it, taking care of it when it gets sick—it’s not just fun and games and playing,” he warned Bucky. “Your mom and I are _not_ going to do it for you, is that clear?”

“Yes!”

“You promise?”

“Yeah, I _promise_ ,” whined Bucky, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can we go _in now_?”

“ _Yes,_ we can go in now.”

Bucky didn’t even wait for his father to get back to his feet before he darted inside the shop to look around.

There were animals _everywhere_ , some of which he had never seen before in his life. Cages lined every wall of the small shop, filled with squawking birds and owls. There were some nasty looking snails (the sign over the container read “Poisonous – See Sales Associate”), tortoises, and more rats than Bucky figured were wandering around the Tube tunnels. Apparently you could get anything you needed here for your pet, or so the sign proclaimed, and Bucky saw a huge display of various tonics and care guides for new owners on a table by window.

Bucky wasn’t even sure where to start by the time his father joined him, wandering around aimlessly looking at all the different animals to choose from. After a few gentle reminders from his dad that Hogwarts would only allow him to bring an owl, cat, or toad, Bucky booked it over to where dozens of kittens and older cats were situated on the far side of the store. There was another kid there as well, a boy who appeared to be around his age with dark skin and hair and wearing a necklace with some kind of animal fang dangling from it.  There wasn’t much room to avoid him, so Bucky stepped up beside the other boy and surveyed the various cats on display.

Most of them were kittens tiny enough that they would fit in Bucky’s hands easily, but there were a few bigger cats that had clearly been in the shop for a while. They didn’t seem as pleased to be the objects of the boys’ scrutiny and turned away to primly lick themselves or nap as Bucky knew cats were wont to do anyway. The kittens, on the other hand, were already clawing at the bars of their cages, abandoning the little toys they must have been playing with earlier to garner the attention of their two spectators. The boy next to him bent down to look at one of the cages on the bottom shelf, sticking a finger through the bars so the little black fur ball inside could nibble at his fingertip affectionately.

“You thinking of getting that one?” Bucky asked kindly, squatting to get a better look. The cat was sleek and slender, sort of shaped like a tiny panther with eyes as sharp as one.

The boy looked up at him and shrugged before focusing back on the cat. “Maybe. I’m not sure if my father will let me get one yet.”

Bucky nodded sympathetically; he’d been begging his parents to get a dog or something for _years_ and it took a damn Hogwarts letter before they finally gave in. Glancing back to see his father perusing the books Bucky had seen on the way in, Bucky commiserated, “I know that feeling. My dad’s finally letting me get one now that I’m going away to school.”

That seemed to pique the boy’s interest and he turned back to look more closely at Bucky, tilting his head curiously. “Hogwarts?”

“Yup.”

“I’m starting this year as well,” he offered, smiling a little. “Maybe I can persuade my father with that.”

Bucky laughed. “It’s worth a try! I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“T’Challa, and I suppose so.”

They fell silent, T’Challa still playing with the little black cat while Bucky surveyed a few of the other kittens vying for his attention. He poked his fingers through the bars to scratch a little calico’s head where she mewed pathetically at him. Apparently it was just a trick to get his attention; once she had it, the kitten rolled onto her back and started batting her paws playfully at his fingers.

Glancing back at his companion, Bucky observed, “You don’t sound British.”

“Neither do you,” was the immediate response, and T’Challa quirked an eyebrow at him. Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d said something wrong, but it didn’t seem like the other boy was angry, so he pressed on.

“Nope. We moved here from New York a few years ago,” he explained with a shrug. It didn’t seem to matter how many English words he used—he had never picked up the accent. That was just fine by him. “What about you?”

“I come from Wakanda.” At Bucky’s perplexed frown (he’d _never_ heard of that place before), T’Challa clarified, “It’s a country in Africa.”

_Must be pretty small_ , Bucky thought, racking his brains to remember his geography lessons in school and still coming up with a huge blank. He stopped trying after a minute and inquired, “How come you’re going to Hogwarts instead of Uagadou or something?”

T’Challa didn’t answer right away, stroking the black kitten’s head slowly and clearly thinking about his answer. Finally, he deliberately stated, “My father travels to England a lot to work with the Ministry here, so I got a waiver to attend. He thinks it is a good idea for me to broaden my horizons.”

“Oh. Guess that makes sense,” muttered Bucky, his mood darkening slightly. If only he could be lucky enough for _his_ mother to send him to another school to _broaden his horizons_. He let his hand trail across the fronts of the cages until something rough and wet brushed his skin. Frowning, Bucky stepped up closer to see big round eyes peering back out at him. The kitten could probably fit in the palm of just one hand and had a round face with tiny, folded ears; her eyes were enormous and black with thin pink-orange irises. She was entirely black except for her left front paw, which had a white patch almost all the way up to her torso.

“Hey there,” Bucky whispered, leaning forward to take a closer look. The kitten mewled in response and tucked her head under his extended finger, rubbing up against it with a satisfied purr. Bad mood effectively evaporating, Bucky turned his head slightly in T’Challa’s direction and mentioned, “My mom works for the Ministry. Maybe she’s met your dad?”

“Uh…maybe.” For the first time since their impromptu conversation started, he actually sounded sort of nervous. “What does your mother do?”

“She’s Senior Undersecretary.”

It was quite possible that T’Challa’s eyes widened further than Bucky’s kitten’s. “That’s… That’s right underneath the Minister, right?” When Bucky nodded, he smiled tensely. “She, uh… She may have met my father before.”

“That’s cool,” Bucky cautiously replied, shooting T’Challa a small grin. Apparently this wasn’t a topic the latter really wanted to talk about, so he quickly changed the subject. “Think I’m gonna get this one. What do you think?”

T’Challa’s answering smile turned slightly more grateful and he stepped up beside Bucky, peering into the cage where the kitten was bumping its nose against Bucky’s fingers. Taking in the pudgy little ball of fur, T’Challa laughed and declared with mock-sobriety, “Looks like she’ll be a fierce warrior.”

The two dissolved into a fit of giggles, and even the kitten got excited and mewed along with them, which just made them laugh harder.

“Yeah,” Bucky managed to say once he composed himself. “A real fighter.”

The witch overseeing the shop chose that moment to approach them, probably to tell them off for cackling enough to disturb the animals, and Bucky immediately pointed to the cage in question. “I’d like to buy this one, please!”

Pulling out a pair of spectacles and setting them evenly on her nose, the witch leaned forward to look before nodding in approval. “That’s Winter. She’s three weeks old—and fifteen Galleons,” she added with a raised eyebrow.

Bucky nodded right away before calling to his dad and waving him over. He took a look at the kitten and immediately turned to the witch, barraging her with questions—where was she born, how long had she been in the store, had she been sick at all—to the point where Bucky was beginning to wonder if he was even going to be allowed to buy the animal after all.  Eventually, however, his father was apparently satisfied and asked if Bucky was absolutely positive that this was the animal for him before pulling out the requisite compensation.

Once she had the coins in hand, the witch shooed Bucky and T’Challa away from the cage and waved her wand before the lock. The barred door popped open and she stepped aside to let Bucky pluck the kitten carefully out of its former home. Winter automatically pressed her paws to his chest and nudged his chin with her nose, sniffing delicately and attempting to climb up his shirt.

“Ouch!” yelped Bucky when he felt sharp little claws dig shallowly into his skin.

T’Challa snorted, folding his arms while his dad chuckled, “Yeah, that’s cats. You’ll need to keep her claws trimmed.”

Staring at him with wide eyes, Bucky busied himself with disconnecting Winter from his T-shirt while the witch started rattling on about a bunch of things he’d need to know with regards to feeding and taking care of his new kitten. He managed to catch most of it, but ultimately it overwhelmed him enough that his father shot him a reassuring smile and said he’d grab a few necessities while Bucky picked out some toys.

He perused the small section with T’Challa, not quite sure what to get and finally deciding to just hold Winter out in front of him and choose whatever she started pawing at with interest. By the time his dad came back to collect his selections and pay, Bucky had picked up a little stuffed mouse that magically ran away and made you catch it, a feathery thing on a small pole that sent up tiny fireworks every time it was captured, and a ball that was advertised as cleaning teeth while magically reinforced to never scratch or dent. His father added a small cat bed, two bags of food, and a bottle of tonic before paying more Galleons than Bucky could ever have saved from his allowance.

“All set, Buck?” he asked when everything was settled. He joined them at the front door where Bucky and T’Challa had been talking about the Galactic Guardians, which T’Challa _also_ thought was the best Quidditch team in the world. (Bucky couldn’t wait to tell Steve, who was incontrovertibly convinced that that honor went to the Asgardian Vikings.)

Bucky nodded, turning to T’Challa with a grin as they stepped back out into the sunlight. “So I’ll see you at school?”

T’Challa answered in the affirmative and waved as he set off, presumably to find his dad, and Bucky turned in the opposite direction with his own father to head for the ice cream parlor. Now that he knew he would at least know _one_ person going to Hogwarts with him, he unexpectedly felt a little better. T’Challa wasn’t Steve, but he wasn’t a jerk, so that was a step in the right direction.

“Making new friends already, huh?” prodded his dad with a huge grin on his face.

Groaning, Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Dad.”

“I’m not saying it is!”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky gave him his best suspicious glare but gave up when it just made his dad scoff at him good-naturedly.

“Now _that_ you get from your mother.”

They made their way through the crowd toward Florean Fortescue’s and spotted his mom and Becca already sitting outside at a table when a thought occurred to Bucky. Catching his son’s sudden giggle, his father quirked a brow. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Bucky smiled down at Winter where the kitten had curled up against his chest, head tucked inside his jacket, and fallen asleep. “How pissed off do you think Mom will be that my cat’s nickname is _Winnie_?”

Winter yowled and sank her claws into his jacket as their laughter woke her from her nap.


	3. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll start seeing what houses certain characters are in during this chapter. I'm not a fan of the whole "Slytherins are evil" idea, so don't be discouraged if you see characters end up there--we're not making villains of Slytherins here. :)
> 
> *Tags have been updated

The summer practically flew by and before Bucky knew it, he was trailing along behind his parents through King’s Cross station on their way to platform nine and three-quarters. The station was packed with wizards and Muggles alike, and it wasn’t difficult to tell the difference: Muggles looked the same as always, but the wizards were pushing around trunks and owl cages and all sorts of things that the Muggles _should_ have been noticing but somehow _weren’t_. Bucky found himself bumping into people left and right; Winter, unamused by the constant jostling, was trying to climb up his chest and nestle into the side of his neck. For a brief moment, he considered taking his mother up on her suggestion to put Winter in the cage they’d gotten, but he once again decided against it. He wasn’t in a particularly good mood, and having his mildly irritated kitten in his arms helped, albeit only slightly.

The rest of the summer hadn’t exactly gone the way he’d hoped. A couple of weeks after their foray into Diagon Alley, his mother had come home flushed with anger over some meeting with the Minister and said that she needed to take a trip to every country that worked in cooperation with the Ministry to discuss some kind of potential international wizard-Muggle relations law she’d been promoting. The Minister, seeing how unpopular the idea was among some wizards who were violently opposed to working closer with the Muggle government than the Ministry already did, revoked his support just a month before the law was to be put forth for his approval. After that, he’d overheard his mom telling his father, it would be a domino effect of countries dropping the idea. His mother, therefore, had one month to convince the majority of high-ranking members of the various magical governing bodies around the world that the law was necessary in spite of the Minister’s disapproval—none of whom were available to meet in tandem without months of planning.

At the same time, his father was called away on business to see to the design and installation of security infrastructure for a company in Glasgow, meaning Bucky and Becca could go with one or the other. After a lengthy discussion about time and supervision, they went with their mom, which meant getting dragged around every country in Europe and then some, frequently with no internet or cell service depending on just how distant the representatives kept themselves from civilization.

It meant no Wednesday Steve Nights, and it meant no trip to Brooklyn.

Bucky had argued and raged against going, at one point yelling at his parents that staying with Steve actually _solved_ the problem of dragging him all over the continent. He’d even made them talk to Sarah via Skype, who had already heard the situation from Steve and was quite open to the idea of having Bucky in the house. It was all to no avail, though: his mother pulled out the _It’ll Be a Good Experience for You, James_ speech, and that was always the final word of any dispute.

By the time they’d gotten back, there had only been one week left before Steve started school, which their parents said just wasn’t enough time to make it worth the trip when last minute preparations had to be made for Bucky’s departure the following week. Both boys had been devastated, but at least they’d been able to have one last Skype conversation before Steve had to leave, promising that he would send owls constantly.

“Knowing our luck, they’ll shit all over the letters and I won’t be able to read them,” Bucky had groused at his webcam. He’d been ignoring his mother’s harping about his language recently; sometimes there just weren’t any other words to describe what utter and complete garbage everything seemed to be.

So Wednesday had come and gone with no Steve, and Saturday found them wending their way through queues of passengers and conductors until they came to a halt just in front of the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“I’ll go through first with Bucky,” his mom instructed, picking Becca up plopping her down on top of the trolley of Bucky’s belongings his father was pushing. His dad nodded and winked at him encouragingly, and Bucky managed a bland smile in return as he secured Winter more tightly in his arms and followed his mom straight through the brick wall.

Honestly, he’d expected to feel _something_ —cold, a tingle, anything. There was nothing, though; he was just in the Muggle station one moment and somewhere else the next. His mother pulled him aside as soon as they were through to clear the way, and Bucky took the opportunity to observe the famous platform nine and three-quarters. It was surprisingly similar to the rest of the platforms on the other side of the barrier, but there was only one train: an old-fashioned scarlet steam engine. Students and their families milled around all over the place, some of the obviously returning students having already changed into their robes and found friends in the crowd. The first years stood out, watching their parents load their heavy trunks onto the train or sticking like glue to their families until the very last possible moment.

Once his dad and Becca emerged from the other side, his little sister exclaiming loudly and pointing at the train in excitement, they pushed on towards a space where they could get through to the train. Bucky noticed that his mom seemed distracted while his dad lifted his trunk (which Bucky hadn’t been able to do no matter how hard he tried) and stowed it in an empty compartment on board.

“What’s wrong, Ma?” he asked when she didn’t notice him tugging on her sleeve. She turned to him as if she wasn’t aware he had been standing there at all and gave him her best _I Don’t Feel Like Smiling_ smile.

“Nothing, darling. Just taking a look around,” she waved him off with a strained laugh. “What do you say we walk around a bit? Maybe you can meet some of your new classmates, hm?”

“Okaaaaay…” He quirked an eyebrow at his dad in a way that he hoped conveyed his confusion, but he got nothing in return. Instead they strolled along the crowded platform, watching the families saying goodbye and friends reuniting.

They’d only made it a short way before a stocky dark-skinned man stepped in close and held a hand out. “Undersecretary Barnes,” he greeted in a familiar accent. He didn’t smile as Bucky’s mother shook his proffered hand, but he looked like the sort of person who didn’t do much of that anyway with his stiff features and glasses sitting low on his nose where he could more easily look down on people. If he worked at the Ministry, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised after seeing all the other politicians this summer.

“King T’Chaka, it’s nice to see you again.” Inclining her head in recognition and respect, his mom glanced past his shoulder and smiled at whatever she saw. “I’m sure T’Challa is excited to be starting term?”

Bucky blinked, losing track of the conversation as he shifted to the side and, sure enough, saw the boy he met in Diagon Alley staring back at him with a warning glare. It took Bucky a moment to figure out what he was trying to communicate, but when he did, he almost couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

_Mom called his dad a king. Which means he’s a… Holy cow._

Evidently T’Challa was playing the fact that he was _an actual prince_ pretty close to his chest, otherwise he would have told Bucky at the Magical Menagerie. Between that and the silent communication passing between the two of them right now, Bucky assumed it was something he wasn’t eager for their classmates to know and gave a little nod of acknowledgement. Fears assuaged, T’Challa’s expression softened and he even wore the slightest smirk when he lifted his left hand for Bucky to see the black panther-like kitten T’Challa had been admiring the day they’d met. Bucky grinned and coaxed Winter out of her nest inside his jacket, holding her paw to wave it at the other cat.

T’Challa _almost_ laughed but managed a straight face just in time for Bucky’s mother to begin introducing the two boys.

“We’ve already met, Ma.” When she frowned in confusion, he explained, “When we went shopping for school.”

“Excellent,” pronounced King T’Chaka, nodding in satisfaction and laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “If young James is anything like his mother, I am pleased for my son to have made such an acquaintance.”

T’Challa’s father or not, one thing was official: politics _sucked_.

Angling his face so the grown-ups couldn’t see, T’Challa grinned and mouthed, _“James?_ ”

If it were Steve, Bucky wouldn’t have thought twice about flipping him the bird. If they were already on that train and not standing under the scrutiny of a king and Bucky’s _mother_ , he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But T’Challa wasn’t Steve and he didn’t even want to imagine what fate would await him if he did that in present company, so he settled on the most venomous glare he could muster and ignored the silent jeering he got in return.

Thankfully, the moment was cut short when his mother indicated that they would let the king and his son get back to their preparations and the two groups parted ways, the boys promising to find one another on the train. They spent another ten minutes meandering around the platform, stopped every now and again by someone his mom worked with or who knew her from her public appearances, whiling away the time until eleven o’clock when the train would depart.

That is, they _were_ until someone jumped on his back from behind and very nearly sent him and Winter sprawling.

“Hey, what the hell?!”

Bucky should have known something was up when his mom or dad didn’t even try to berate him for his language, but when he spun around to snap at whoever had knocked into him, his jaw dropped.

“Steve!”

Sure enough, his tiny stick of a best friend grinned back at him from a foot away rather than over a webcam for the first time in almost a year. He was a little taller than he had been then, had a little more meat on his bones, and was _very clearly not at Ilvermorny_.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky was aware that he was gawping like a moron, but he couldn’t quite convince himself that what he was seeing was actually _real_.

Beaming back at him, Steve shrugged innocently and replied, “Going to school.”

Bucky blinked. “School.”

“Yes. School.” Steve spoke and nodded slowly as if he were talking to either a very young child or a remarkably stupid person. He looked like he was waiting for something, and he grinned widely when he saw the exact moment everything clicked in Bucky’s head.

“You’re going to Hogwarts?!” shouted Bucky, hardly daring to believe it when Steve nodded. It was the best news _ever_ , and after a little bit of maneuvering, Bucky managed to yank Steve in for a hug without simultaneously crushing Winter between them. “But how?”

Steve hugged him back for a moment before pulling back and glancing over his shoulder. “Ma got me a waiver,” he explained like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Hogwarts has one of the best Auror programs, so since you were going there _anyway_ , she applied to have me go there instead.”

The thought had never crossed Bucky’s mind that this might happen even though Steve had wanted to be an Auror since they were little. He’d always wanted to protect people; Sarah said he got it from his dad, who Bucky barely remembered now but knew he was a soldier. It wasn’t really surprising given Steve’s penchant for fighting a brick wall if he thought it was treating someone the wrong way, but Sarah had always seemed a little reluctant to talk about Steve’s dream. It wasn’t that she didn’t support him; Bucky knew that she would be behind him no matter what he decided, even if he wanted to move into the woods and live out his life with only slugs for company. No, it all came back to the fact that, just like with pretty much _everything else_ , Steve was too small and too sickly most of the time to consider him prime Auror material. Sure, there were plenty of desk jobs to be had if his mom’s frequent complaints about _bloody daft idiots who can’t do their jobs_ was anything to go by, but it wasn’t a job to take lightly.

And Sarah Rogers had decided to send her son thousands of miles away to a different country to go to school just so he would have that opportunity and get to go to school with his best friend.

Bucky grinned over Steve’s shoulder where he noticed Sarah standing with his parents for the first time and ran over to wrap his arms around her waist. Laughing lightly, her arms enveloped him and she swayed them from side to side slightly. “Was it a good surprise?”

“Thank you,” he muttered into her stomach with a firm nod.

He felt her fingers running through his hair comfortingly a moment later. “You’re so very welcome, Bucky.”

When Bucky pulled away a long moment later, he cleared his throat and turned an indignant expression on Steve while their parents fell into conversation, not wanting things to get _too_ sappy. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Rogers.”

Laughing, Steve exclaimed, “It was supposed to be a surprise!”

“We’re _best friends_! We’re _supposed_ to tell each other _everything_ ,” he countered with a huff, sticking his nose in the air. The effect was ruined when Winter reached a paw up to stick it in his nostril, and both their families laughed at the exchange.

“Good girl, Win,” cooed Steve, leaning in close to scratch her behind the ears as she preened under his attention. “You show mean ol’ Bucky what’s what.”

“Hey, you’re not allowed to be on his side,” Bucky whispered loudly to the kitten, who turned her head to lick a stripe up his nose. “Ugh!”

Steve’s fit of giggles ended abruptly as he made a quick choking sound and then sneezed three times in rapid succession. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “Man, I forgot…”

“Forgot what?” asked Bucky with a concerned frown. He didn’t have one of Steve’s inhalers with him, so if this was going to end in an asthma attack, he needed to alert Sarah like _now_.

When Steve’s breathing continued unhindered, however, he decided that wasn’t what it was and waited while Steve inclined his head sheepishly toward Winter.

“I’m allergic to cats.”

Blinking, Bucky glanced back and forth between Winter and Steve a few times before a devious smirk turned up the corner of his mouth. “You wanna hold her?”

“No, Bucky, _no!_ ” Steve yelped, jumping back as Bucky held out the kitten at arm’s length, her big round eyes following Steve as she meowed in his general direction.

“C’mon, Stevie, you’re hurting her feelings!”

“I don’t care— _no_.”

“She just wants a hug.”

“Well then _you_ hug her.”

“She _always_ gets hugs from he. She wants the Steve Rogers hugs she’s been missing out on.”

“My hugs ain’t that great.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, champ.”

“Was that a shot at—“

“Boys, behave,” Bucky’s mom finally intervened with an exasperated sigh. She couldn’t quite hide her amused smirk, though, so Bucky knew they weren’t really in any trouble.

“Mom, Steve’s being mean to Winter,” declared Bucky somberly as Steve sputtered behind him.

“I’m sure he is, darling,” she commiserated in a placating, insincere sort of way as she waved them back toward the train. “There are only a few minutes left before the train leaves. You two had best find your compartment.”

The boys grumbled good-naturedly but followed her lead back toward the carriage where Bucky’s father had loaded his trunk earlier, stopping just before climbing aboard to say goodbye to their parents. The other students around them were doing the same, some having already made themselves comfortable on board with their friends, and the conductor blew the horn in a brief warning that it was nearly time to depart. While Sarah bent down to talk to Steve, probably making sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, Bucky threw himself into his parents’ arms.

“Did you guys know Steve was going to Hogwarts the whole summer?” he asked them, leaning his chin on his dad’s stomach to look them both in the eye.

“We did,” his dad nodded, ruffling his hair and laughing at his scrunched up expression. “We thought it would be a nice way to start school for you to find out like this.”

“Even if it did mean enduring your utterly endearing pout for three months,” snorted his mother, smiling down at him. “It’s not quite what you both were expecting, but I think you’re going to have a marvelous time.”

At Bucky’s answering grin, her smile turned into a stern glower.

“So _no_ getting into trouble, James Buchanan Barnes. Do not make us all regret this, understood?”

“Yeah, Ma, I get it.”

“Good. Now come here.”

“Maaaaaaa,” he groaned as she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, struggling half-heartedly against her grip on either side of his face. She stepped back and smirked, rubbing what Bucky was sure was a lipstick smear off his cheek.

“No matter how old you get, you’ll always be my baby,” his mom huffed before nodding toward the carriage door. “Now run along. You and Steve stick together, and you _write us_ once you’re settled and sorted.”

“The same goes for you,” Sarah told Steve, poking his nose before pulling him and Bucky into one last hug. “And I expect to be hearing from you as well, Bucky.”

“You will,” he promised, squeezing her tightly with a grin he thought would never fade. It was going to be a good school year—he could tell.

 

***

 

Bucky and Steve managed to get themselves settled into the compartment where Bucky’s things were stored just a minute before the train pulled out of the station. Becca ran down the platform after them, waving and smiling until she tripped over her feet and their father barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground. Laughing, Bucky and Steve waved until the train turned a corner and their families were out of sight.

“I still can’t believe you’re going to Hogwarts,” sighed Bucky happily as he plopped himself down in the seat across from Steve and put Winter down next to him. The kitten glanced around curiously for a moment before tucking her head next to Bucky’s leg and curling up into a ball, apparently not in the mood to explore.

“You have no idea how hard it was not to say _anything_ all summer,” chuckled Steve with that trademark mischievous glint in his eyes. “It was actually a good thing you weren’t home or else I probably couldn’t have kept it a secret.”

“Well, you’re a crappy liar, so I probably would have figured it out eventually.”

“Am not,” Steve scoffed indignantly. Bucky raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Steve, you st-st-stuttered all over yourself just trying to tell your mom that I was the one who ate the last of the Chocolate Frogs last Thanksgiving. Which I _wasn’t_.”

Shifting down in his seat, Steve folded his arms over his chest and stubbornly grumbled, “Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did _not_.”

“Did _too_.”

They teased back and forth for a while longer before turning to the subject of their summers, Bucky telling him all the things about the different places he’d been to that he hadn’t had time to explain when they last spoke, and Steve talking about going with Sarah to Coney Island for one last fun day before it was time to go to school. Apparently, Steve hadn’t been lying about the fact that he was leaving home last week: he and Sarah had Apparated to London and stayed at the Leaky Cauldron so that Steve could get his school supplies. That opened up a whole _other_ conversation as they discussed their favorite shops and Steve apologized for calling Bucky a big baby over how hard it was to remember how Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts worked when trying to buy something for the first time.

“I told you they were weird,” crowed Bucky, and Steve grudgingly agreed.

It was at least a couple of hours before their conversation was interrupted by the door of their compartment opening, and a brown-haired girl poked her head in with an irritated frown on her face.

“Any chance you’d mind some company?” she asked in a near perfect rendition of Bucky’s mom’s accent. “The other compartments are either full or full of arseholes.”

Bucky glanced at Steve and exchanged a quick shrug before they both nodded, the girl gratefully sliding the door open wider to allow her and another boy inside. While she gracefully lowered herself into the seat next to Steve, the boy limped slightly as he hobbled over to sit by Bucky.

Seeing Bucky staring, the kid shrugged. “Like she said: assholes. Daniel Sousa,” he introduced himself before nodding to the girl. “And that’s Peggy Carter.”

Steve and Bucky returned the introductions and waited through a slightly awkward pause for Peggy to shrewdly guess, “First years?”

“How’d you know?” inquired Steve, already puffing up as though waiting for an inevitable slight on his size. Bucky fought a sigh with great difficulty.

Peggy smiled kindly, though, and pointed at the luggage rack above them. “It’s on that trunk.”

Bucky and Steve both followed her line of sight and saw that, just like Peggy said, there was a little _YR1_ written underneath Bucky’s initials on his trunk. Steve snorted and teased, “Your mom seriously wrote that on there?”

“She was excited,” Bucky brushed it off, rolling his eyes. “You know how she gets.”

“That’s too cute, Buck.”

“Shut it, punk.”

Frowning, Daniel chimed in, “What kinda name is ‘Bucky,’ anyway?” It didn’t sound like he was making fun, but Bucky had answered this question enough to still feel the slightest twinge of irritation.

“It’s a nickname. Short for my middle name—Buchanan.”

“And the J?” asked Peggy, glancing back at his trunk. Apparently he wasn’t getting out of this one.

“James.”

Clearing her throat delicately and very obviously trying not to laugh, she commented, “James Buchanan. Wasn’t that an American president?”

_Ugh, you mean someone actually knows who that guy is?_

“So my dad’s a history geek, it happens,” he groused, but it appeared Peggy was finished poking fun at his name and decided to take pity on him.

“We’re in our second year, if it makes you both feel any better. Your first will fly by.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. It’ll be tough, but ‘s’long as you follow the rules, you’ll be fine.”

Bucky shot Steve a look that he hoped indicated how disbelieving he was that that was likely to happen. Steve discreetly flipped him the bird right back, but Peggy caught the exchange.

“Oh, so we have a troublemaker, then?” She glanced back and forth between Bucky and Steve, her gaze lingering a little longer on Steve as he stammered a quick denial. That just made her laugh as she observed, “You’re a terrible liar, Steve!”

“Told you so,” boasted Bucky smugly.

Steve glared at him with his most unimpressed expression before turning back to Peggy and explaining, “I don’t go looking for trouble. It usually just finds me.”

“Unless there’s someone who needs help or a dog getting beat up on or someone getting the crap kicked outta them or someone stealing,” listed Bucky, ticking each item off on his fingers. A second later he yelped in pain as Steve managed to kick his shin from across the compartment. Winter made a tiny, disapproving sound beside him when he jumped.

The four spent most of the afternoon talking about Hogwarts, Peggy and Daniel briefing them on what they could expect when they arrived. They were fairly complimentary toward the professors, although they did admit that the headmaster could be rather frightening. Peggy insisted that he was at least fair, but he wasn’t the sort of professor you wanted to get on the wrong side of based on their description. They also explained what the Sorting Ceremony entailed, and Bucky thought it honestly sounded a lot easier than what he was expecting. His mother had been rather vague about the whole thing, but sitting on a stool while a hat read your mind? That didn’t sound so bad. At least he wouldn’t have to actually do any magic in front of anyone; unless it was an accident, he hadn’t performed any magic since stepping in to help Steve when they were eight years old. He’d brought his textbooks with him on their trip that summer and read a good deal (there was nothing _better_ to do, so why not?), but he hadn’t actually tried any spells. In hindsight, though, it would have been a pretty dumb idea to expect Muggle-borns to be able to perform on the same level as kids who’d grown up around magic.

It felt like no time at all before Peggy reminded them that they should change into their school robes and left with Daniel to locate their own trunks to do the same. Bucky pulled his trunk down from the rack above him while Steve stood and stretched, pointing toward the door.

“Mine’s in the next car up,” he sighed. “Wasn’t sure where you put your stuff.”

Smirking, Bucky shrugged innocently. “If you’d told me you were coming—“

Steve cuffed him on the back of the head and stepped out of the compartment before he could finish that sentence, and Bucky chortled to himself as he pulled a set of robes out from among the rest of his clothes and got changed.

Outside the window, the sun had nearly set by the time he was finished and he assumed they must be getting close. His mother had said on the trip to the station that the train usually arrived by nightfall so that the first years could be sorted into their houses before dinner. With Peggy and Daniel to talk to, Bucky had barely paid any attention to the scenery, but he could still just make out mountains in the distance around the path the train was cutting between them.

Bucky waited until it had been about ten minutes since he’d finished changing before he tucked Winter into the hood of his robe and went looking for Steve, positive that the punk was having trouble lugging his trunk back down the train to their compartment and figuring he may as well go try to help. It probably wouldn’t be appreciated, but it would at least speed the process along a bit.

There were a lot of students moving back and forth in the hall outside the compartment now, finding their friends and their luggage in order to change before they arrived in Hogsmeade. Bucky turned left and proceeded into the next carriage where he’d seen Steve heading earlier, plastering himself to the wall in an attempt to not bump into anyone else. The older students didn’t really seem to care or even notice he existed, so eventually he gave up and just shoved his way through or else he’d _never_ find Steve.

As it turned out, he really didn’t have much of a problem doing just that at all.

About halfway down the next carriage, Bucky could see Steve’s blond hair, just barely visible past a pair of much taller girls who were giggling in the hallway. Bucky squeezed past them to find his best friend glaring daggers at a kid not much taller than Bucky wearing Slytherin robes, the latter appearing utterly unconcerned as he examined a tiny device that looked suspiciously like a robot in his hand.

“—ven supposed to _have_ any No-Maj stuff here anyway,” Steve was saying by the time Bucky was within earshot, arms folded as he surveyed the little machine with distaste.

The other boy immediately took offense and scoffed right in Steve’s face—never a good idea from Bucky’s experience. “It’s not _Muggle_ technology, short stuff,” he huffed defiantly, ignoring how Steve bristled. “I’ll have you know this is the finest wizard invention since the Self-Inking Quill—actually it’s better than that because, I mean seriously, that was just a quill, what’s the big deal, right?”

It didn’t seem to be a question he expected an answer to since he plowed right past it and set the _finest wizard invention since the Self-Inking Quill_ down on the floor by their feet, pulling his wand out from a pocket inside his robes. The machine hardly looked as impressive as the kid obviously thought it was, just a metal base with what looked like a mechanical arm built off the top. The other boy waved his wand and the robot suddenly came to life, moving around their feet in admittedly impressive figure eights before stopping by Steve’s foot and reaching out to yank at the end of his shoelace.

“Hey, cut that out,” grumbled Steve, nudging the robot away with his foot and frowning mildly up at its owner. “So it’s a robot. No-Majs perfected that _forever_ ago.”

“And _that_ is where you are wrong,” challenged the Slytherin, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for Steve. Bucky had seen him come close, but he’d never quite imagined that Steve could do such a good impression of his mother’s murder glare as he was right at that moment. “I activate it with a spell, but after that, the charm I used makes this little guy completely sentient. He thinks for himself, aaaaaaand apparently he really doesn’t like you very much.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Steve yelped, hopping a foot into the air as the robot sharply jabbed his leg with its metal claw. Steve turned disbelieving eyes on the Slytherin boy, who picked up the robot and waved his wand; the three of them watched it go dormant in his hand.

Smirking with something in between amusement and arrogance, the boy announced, “One day soon, you’ll see my Dum-E Helper-Bots all over the worldwide Wizarding community.”

“Dummy?” scoffed Bucky, folding his arms. Part of him liked the kid in spite of how he was noticeably enjoying taunting Steve, while the other part was vastly annoyed.

“Dum-E,” he corrected, rolling his eyes and turning into the compartment to place his beloved creation back into his trunk. Bucky couldn’t identify half the things he saw in there and wasn’t sure he wanted to try. “I’ll give you guys a discount given that Shorty here was such a great guinea pig.” 

Steve opened his mouth to offer some kind of scathing retort, no doubt, but the other kid cut him off by shoving his hand underneath their noses.

“Tony Stark, wizard prodigy since 1995. And you two newbies are?”

“Bucky Barnes, and this is Steve Rogers,” Bucky introduced with a sidelong warning glance at Steve. Peggy had told them earlier about a—in her words— _ridiculous, obscenely conceited yet ultimately harmless prick_ who was in her year and also happened to be the son of Professor Stark, who would be their Charms teacher. The last thing they really needed was for Steve to open his mouth and get them on Professor Stark’s shit list before they even got to Hogwarts.

“Excellent! Fellow Americans!” exclaimed Tony, spreading his arms out at his sides. “Welcome, compatriots! And what brings you two to such a fine British school?”

“Tony, stop badgering them,” came a girl’s voice from inside the compartment. A moment later he was joined at the door by an older girl in Ravenclaw robes. She was tall, clearly older than any of them, with straight red hair and a smattering of freckles. Her smile was kind and apologetic as she sighed, “I’m Pepper. You’ll have to excuse Tony. He gets annoying when he’s excited.”

“Yeah, so we noticed,” commented Steve flatly, ignoring Tony’s indignant spluttering.

Pepper smiled sympathetically as Bucky cut in, “We should probably be getting back. I think we’re almost there.”

They bid their farewells to Tony and Pepper, rejoining the throng of students moving this way and that as Tony called to them, “Try for Slytherin—we’ll have fun, Mighty Mouse!”

“Tony!” rebuked Pepper just before they moved into the next carriage. Bucky bit his lip to keep from laughing as he saw Steve turned three shades of purple and roll his eyes angrily.

_Oh yeah. This is gonna be a great year._


	4. The Sorting

By the time the train ground to a halt, Steve had mostly forgotten about their encounter with Tony (albeit after a fair bit of grumbling) and they clambered out of the carriage with the rest of the students, leaving their belongings behind to be taken to the castle separately. Much to Bucky’s dismay, he’d been forced to retire Winter to her cage for the evening when one of the prefects caught him trying to smuggle her off the train in his hood. The kitten had given him a baleful look and mewled pitifully as he snapped the latch shut, and Bucky had been sorely tempted to just take her anyway, but he really didn’t want one of the professors to take custody of his kitten on the first night, so he swallowed his guilt and left an extra little treat with Winter’s toy mouse in the cage as an apology.

Bucky and Steve stepped off the train into the crowd of students milling about the platform, the only light coming from some dim lanterns along the path toward Hogsmeade. Bucky could just make out some of the shops in the distance before a call of, “First years, down here,” caught his attention. It was hard to tell which direction they were meant to go, so they simply followed the other confused first years down off the platform to where a tall, severe looking man in olive green robes stood waiting, one hand holding a lantern aloft while the other was behind his back as he stood with almost military rigidity. He periodically called for first years to gather around him but said nothing else, surveying their appearances without even a hint of a smile.

As they waited for the rest of the first years to congregate, Bucky looked around at the mixture of nervous and excited faces surrounding them until he spotted one that was familiar. He nudged Steve and jerked his head to the side, leading the way around a few others until they were next to T’Challa where he stood waiting by himself.

“Didn’t see you on the train,” he called when they were close enough, catching the other boy’s gaze. Surprisingly, he rolled his eyes.

“I tried to find you, but I got stopped by some weird robot demonstration and decided it wasn’t worth trying to get through the crowd,” he explained, sounding about as put out as he looked.

Bucky barked a laugh. “Yeah, Steve and I met the guy with the robot. He’s…uh…”

“He’s real special,” finished Steve, and Bucky figured it was probably as nice as he could be about the whole situation.

T’Challa smirked and nodded his assent. “That would be one word for it.”

A slightly awkward silence fell over them before Bucky realized his mistake and hastened to say, “Oh, T’Challa, this is my best friend Steve. Steve, T’Challa’s the guy I told you about from Diagon Alley.”

“The cat guy?”

“I’ve been called worse,” muttered T’Challa with a shrug. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

“You too, T’Challa. Did your dad let you get the cat?” Steve inquired politely, surprising Bucky with remembering that.

T’Challa’s eyes flicked to Bucky momentarily, probably trying to decipher what else he may have told Steve about him, before he answered, “Yes, she’s on the train. The prefects wouldn’t let me bring her to the feast.”

“Same with Winter,” Bucky empathized with a tiny shake of his head to answer T’Challa’s unspoken question. He really hated hiding anything from Steve, but it was T’Challa’s secret to tell. Besides, after _literally everyone Bucky knew_ had kept the fact that Steve was going to Hogwarts from him, he figured it was pretty good payback. He could ask T’Challa later if it was all right to tell Steve anyway.

Before they had a chance to continue their conversation, the man with the lantern called their attention to him and, once they were all silent, announced, “First years, listen up. I’m Professor Phillips, your flying instructor and the Quidditch coach. We’re going to be getting to the school a different way, so follow me down this path to the Black Lake. Pay attention—don’t need anyone tripping and falling in. When we get down to the boats, you’re going to get in and make sure you only have four to a boat. Not five—four. Everybody got that?”

Either everybody got it, or they just really didn’t want to say they didn’t.

“Excellent. Let’s get a move on.”

“Friendly guy,” Steve muttered under his breath, both Bucky and T’Challa nodding in emphatic agreement as the mass of students turned onto a dirt path that began sloping steadily downward. Above the heads of their classmates, Bucky could see the reflection of the moon off what he assumed was the Black Lake and Hogwarts on a mountain in the distance beyond it. The sight struck him with awe, and he felt his mouth hanging open as he looked at the towering spires and grand arches leading inside the castle. There were a few lights on in the windows here and there, but otherwise the castle was mostly dark except for the enormous windows toward the back overlooking the lake, where Bucky assumed the feast must be held. The closer they got to the lake, the more his excitement grew, and he shared a grin with Steve before focusing back on not falling into the water as they approached.

Dozens of boats lined the shore with a lantern hung at the front of each, but there were no oars or propellers. Some of the students marveled at that as they stepped inside, but Bucky figured they must be Muggle-born; a number of students were just hopping in without a thought to _how_ the boat would get to the castle, which meant they were already aware of the magic at work. It was actually sort of funny to watch, and Bucky wondered what it must be like to go from living the life of a Muggle to taking a train to a town that Muggles couldn’t see in order to go to a school of magic held in a castle Muggles _also_ couldn’t see.

_Probably feels like they’re going crazy._

Bucky, T’Challa, and Steve clambered into the first uninhabited boat they could find, watching everyone else doing the same around them. A few stragglers were wandering from boat to boat trying to find someone to sit with, and a dark-skinned boy with close-cropped hair and a kind smile jogged up to theirs a minute or two after they’d gotten situated, slightly out of breath.

“Mind if I join you guys?” he asked, and Steve automatically made room beside him as the kid climbed aboard. He introduced himself after he’d caught his breath as Sam Wilson, and they each introduced themselves in turn. “So, uh… How exactly does this thing work?”

 _Must be Muggle-born_ , Bucky thought sympathetically. “Magic,” he shrugged as if that should explain everything.

Sam raised his eyebrows and looked over the edge of the boat at the water, which was as black as the lake’s name in the darkness around them. “Magic,” he repeated skeptically, frowning in confusion.

“On your left,” Steve told him, pointing over his shoulder to where some of the other boats had already begun propelling themselves. Sam’s mouth dropped open before, half a second later, their boat jerked forward as if pulled by an invisible rope and they began the smooth trip over the lake toward the castle.

“Magic,” Sam breathed, grinning like a maniac. The other boys giggled at his wonderment before turning back to watch as the castle loomed over them the nearer they drew. Bucky had to admit, even though the magic of the place didn’t really surprise him, everything was just as impressive as his mom told him it would be.

The castle vanished as they passed through vines of ivy hanging down from the cliffs above them, entering a dark tunnel. The only lights were the ones on their boats, each one a tiny beacon in the otherwise pitch black void around them. Bucky assumed they must be underneath the castle as they traveled through the tunnel, and a few minutes later the boats pulled into an underground cave with a rocky outcropping to their right. The boats ran aground on the rocks, waiting steadily as they all hopped out onto dry land. (Bucky, of course, stepped right into the chilly water and felt it soak through his shoe and the leg of his robes as Steve snorted at his misfortune.)

Professor Phillips was already waiting for them, lantern in hand, in the opening of a passageway. His expression plainly said he didn’t want to be kept waiting, so all the students took the hint and hastened after him as he turned and led them through the channel. They emerged in an enormous, grassy courtyard right outside the walls of the castle, and there was more than one gasp of anticipation as Professor Phillips conducted them up a set of stone steps to the main entrance.

The huge front door was already open, the still warm late summer air following them into the brightly lit entrance hall. Whispers of excitement and dozens of footsteps echoed throughout the hall, and they came to a halt with a grand staircase ahead and yet another enormous doorway to the right, presumably the Great Hall if the clamor of voices issuing out was anything to go by.

Standing ramrod straight in front of the doors, Professor Phillips placed his lantern on the stone floor (it went out immediately after being released, because _magic_!) and surveyed them all with the same scrutinizing glower he’d worn since they’d left the station. The whispers ceased almost immediately and, a moment later, he strolled back and forth in front of them.

“Once you step through these doors, you’ll go to the head of the Great Hall to be sorted into your houses. Your house will not change while you are here at Hogwarts. There are four you might be sorted into: Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw. Your house will be based on who _you_ are, not what magical abilities you might already have, and they don’t dictate how you’ll do here. Every Wizarding school puts out great witches and wizards, but Hogwarts stands out above them all because _we_ have the _best_.” He paused momentarily, flicking his eyes throughout the crowd with a stony expression on his face. “And they are gonna get better. _Much_ better.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance, both trying as hard as they could not to laugh and ruin the somber atmosphere.

“Now,” Phillips continued once he’d apparently decided they were sufficiently intimidated, “once you step through these doors, I will escort you to the front of the hall where Professor May will have you try on the Sorting Hat. There are four tables, one for each house. Once you’re sorted, you’ll join your house for the feast. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good.”

As soon as Phillips’s back was turned, Steve leaned up on his toes to whisper, “Still thinking of playing Quidditch, Buck?”

“Aw, hell yeah,” he grinned back. Never let it be said he wasn’t up for a challenge.

Steve simply rolled his eyes, both falling silent again as they followed the line into the Great Hall. Bucky promptly felt his jaw not quite hit the floor, but get as close as it possibly could. The room was _gigantic_ , with four long tables packed with students on either side of them. Candles hovered in the air over their heads, lighting the assembly along with the braziers lining the stone walls on all sides. Straight ahead, Bucky could see through the other students that there was another table settled against the far wall where all the professors were standing, watching the first years make their way down the long center aisle. Most impressive, however, was what he discovered when Steve nudged him with an elbow and pointed skywards: the ceiling was completely invisible, hidden behind the most realistic representation of the night sky Bucky had ever seen. It reminded him of looking up at the little magical stars Sarah had enchanted across Steve’s ceiling, only if he didn’t _know_ that they were in an enclosed castle, he would have sworn the Great Hall had no roof at all.

As they moved further down the aisle, they saw that there were empty spaces left at the heads of the four house tables, most likely so that the first years had somewhere to sit when they joined the house they’d call home for the next seven years. All eyes were on them, some faces smiling kindly while others giggled and whispered as they passed. Bucky caught a few familiar ones and grinned at Peggy where she sat at the Slytherin table; he also spotted Daniel in his Gryffindor robes, and Pepper at the Ravenclaw table. It was admittedly rather unnerving to be the center of attention like this, so he hoped the Sorting Ceremony would be quick.

The line stuttered to a sudden stop as the front reached the head of the Great Hall, and Phillips moved to join the rest of the staff at the High Table. Another witch stood before them with a stool and old black hat sitting innocuously beside her. Professor May appeared to be of Asian heritage and surveyed them with skepticism similar to Phillips’s, but her expression was less harsh when she announced, “You will be called alphabetically. When you hear your name, step up to the stool and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head. After it has made its decision, you will join the rest of your house.”

Swallowing hard, Bucky took a deep, nervous breath. His mother had told him a lot about the different houses when he’d asked about the Sorting, and she had mentioned that she was sorted into Gryffindor when she went to Hogwarts. He supposed that made sense: she was known at the Ministry for being dedicated to justice and the greater good, which was apparently a big Gryffindor trait. She never pressured him to be part of that house, though, and both his parents had made it infinitely clear that it didn’t matter where he ended up—they would be proud of him regardless.

“No one house is any better than the others,” his mother had explained to him. “You might hear a lot of evidence to the contrary, though. There has _always_ been rivalry between the houses.”

So Bucky really wasn’t concerned about what house he was sorted into, but he and Steve had discussed it at length on the train and had always planned to be in the same one. Now, he supposed, they’d just have to keep their fingers crossed.

A few students were called and sorted before Professor May’s voice rang out, “Barnes, James.”

“Good luck,” whispered Steve beside him, and Bucky felt T’Challa pat his shoulder from behind before he waded through the students ahead of him and up to the stool.

Professor May’s expression didn’t change as he took a seat and, a moment later, felt the old hat settle upon his head. He couldn’t help feeling like there was something he should be doing, but all he could manage was to stare nervously out over the assembled students all around the Great Hall, waiting to hear his fate. The other first years had just sat there for a few seconds before the hat called out what house they would be part of, so it made him jump slightly when that voice was suddenly _inside his head_.

“Well, then,” it sighed thoughtfully, as though it couldn’t care less which house he ended up in. “There’s plenty of bravery and courage, to be sure, but also some cunning and cleverness, I see. Hmm…”

Bucky gulped, biting his lip. Was he supposed to say something back, or would that be crazy?

“You’re in a school of magic—we’re all a bit crazy here,” the hat chuckled at his unspoken thought, still apparently only talking to him since no one else reacted. “Now let’s see… You’re a trustworthy friend and loyal to a fault, and you’re willing to do whatever it takes to make sure those closest to you are safe. That settles _that_ , Barnes. Good luck in—“

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat’s voice suddenly rang out to the rest of the school.

A deafening cheer went up from a table full of students wearing yellow and black as Professor May removed the hat from his head and he hopped down, shooting Steve and T’Challa a half-excited, half-relieved smile on his way past. As soon as he was close enough, some of the older Hufflepuffs patted him on the back and made room for him to sit. He ended up next to a girl who didn’t look much older than him, with light brown hair and an infectious grin.

“The name’s Angie,” she introduced herself earnestly, throwing an arm around his shoulders and giving him a quick squeeze. “You’re gonna love Hufflepuff—best house _ever_.”

All he could do was nod in the face of her excitement, missing the next student in line before turning back to watch a blond boy named “Barton, Clint” hop up onto the stool with an air of nonchalance none of the other first years had. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was confidence or if he just didn’t care.

It took less than five seconds for the hat to declare him a Hufflepuff, and Bucky decided he _definitely_ just didn’t give a shit when he strolled over to the table and threw himself down grumpily next to Bucky.

He almost said hi until Clint glared down at his plate and grunted, “D’you think they’ll have pizza?”

Then all he could do was laugh.

“Charles, Luke.”

To Bucky’s great confusion, T’Challa stepped away from where he’d been standing next to Steve and approached the stool. Their eyes met for just a brief moment, but T’Challa’s expression didn’t betray anything. Resolving to ask later, Bucky clapped with the rest of the room when the hat called out, “Slytherin!”

The Slytherin table was right behind where Bucky was sitting, and he leaned over as T’Challa passed to ask in a hushed tone, “Luke?”

“Blame my father,” muttered T’Challa, who mostly ignored the cheers of his fellow Slytherins and sat as close to Bucky as he could at his own table. “He didn’t want to make it obvious.”

Bucky frowned in thought a moment before he realized what T’Challa meant: if he was going to pretend he wasn’t a prince, it would probably be better if he went by a name that no one would recognize.

After that, Jane Foster was sorted into Ravenclaw, and Professor May continued running down the list. Hufflepuff gained a few more faces, including a girl named Darcy who had _way_ more energy than Bucky had ever seen and talked a mile a minute. By the time they made it to Steve, Bucky was nearly bouncing in anxious anticipation while he watched his best friend ascend to the stool and waited.

And waited.

And _waited_.

 _What’s taking so long?_ he wondered silently, frowning. A few students had been up there longer while the hat deliberated over which house to put them in, but Steve was by far the longest. At one point, he looked over at the Hufflepuff table and met Bucky’s eyes, answering his puzzled expression with a tiny, nearly imperceptible shrug of one shoulder. Even the teachers, who had remained stoically still this whole time, were beginning to shift impatiently in their seats.

Another long minute that felt like an eternity passed before the brim of the hat lifted again and shouted out, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Bucky made an admirable effort not to whine in frustration, but he couldn’t help the disappointed groan that escaped him as the red-and-gold table erupted into applause and Steve moved to join them, shooting an equally disappointed glance in Bucky’s direction.

The Sorting finished relatively quickly after that, finally ending with Sam Wilson joining Hufflepuff before the teacher at the very center of the table, a black man with an eye patch and black leather robes, got to his feet. He made for an impressively intimidating figure and the students fell quiet immediately, all eyes on him. There was a moment of silence where the professor’s head turned from side to side, his one good eye taking in all the students as they watched him. Bucky realized that, based on Peggy and Daniel’s descriptions earlier, _this_ was the famous Headmaster Fury.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, first years,” he declared after a long minute had elapsed. “And welcome back, everyone else. Couple of announcements before we eat. First years, be advised: the Forbidden Forest at the edge of the grounds is off limits unless accompanied by a teacher. No exceptions unless you feel like explaining to your parents why it was worth getting expelled. First years, second years, and anyone who doesn’t turn in their permission slip to their Head of House are _not_ permitted to go into Hogsmeade. If you have a permission slip, notices will be placed in your house common rooms with dates when you will be allowed to go. Do not try sneaking out of the castle—it will not. End. Well.”

It was official: Fury’s glare was more terrifying with one eye than most people managed with two.

He went on to outline the school curfew for the first years’ benefit and indicate that any questions about daily schedules and protocol could be directed to prefects or Heads of House, who he introduced briefly. The Hufflepuff Head of House, Professor Coulson, gave them a warm smile far different from any of the other professors who had addressed the first years thus far.

 _Maybe they’re not_ all _scary as hell._

Finally, after a few more announcements regarding changes in staff, Professor Fury took a deep breath and shrugged. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s eat.”

It felt a bit anticlimactic until Bucky looked back at the gilded plate in front of him to see that there were enormous dishes of all kinds of foods laid out before them on the table that hadn’t been there just moments ago. A collective groan of appreciation rolled through the room before the atmosphere was filled with the sounds of students and cutlery and eating and chatter.

As Bucky studied the food in front of him, he couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the fare wasn’t nearly as British as his mother had told him it used to be. She’d reminisced a few days ago about the puddings and pies and other traditional British meals she’d had there (and how it was _really unfortunate that Americans don’t eat that way, you know, George—honestly, don’t they have any taste?_ ), but the few times she’d tried to make them herself, Bucky had to admit he really wasn’t a fan. His father hadn’t been either, and Bucky distinctly remembered him muttering something under his breath once about the fact that anyone who could actually stomach blood pudding couldn’t be trusted.

Needless to say, when his mom told him about the sort of dishes they served at Hogwarts, he wasn’t sure how he was going to survive seven years having to eat that stuff. The problem, it seemed, had already been solved. While there were some very obviously traditional dishes set out before them, there were also the infinitely better ones: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and even pizza.

Clint was ecstatic beside him, helping himself to four slices and digging into them with gusto.

Bucky shook his head with a laugh and reached for the macaroni, serving himself before reluctantly tossing a few florets of broccoli to the side so that he could tell his mom he wasn’t eating _completely_ badly. As they ate, he fell into conversation with Sam, who had taken the seat across from him and looked as though he might just cry at the sight of some much more American food on the table.

When they mentioned it, Angie turned and put down her fork for a second to advise them, “They get a lot of American kids these days, so the gross stuff got tossed off the menu.”

Narrowing his eyes at her accent, Bucky guessed, “You from New York?”

“Yup, Manhattan born and bred,” she boasted, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. “What about you two?”

“Washington, D.C.,” answered Sam at the same time Bucky replied, “Brooklyn.”

That got them started talking about their Muggle school experiences, and Angie tutted at Sam when he called them No-Majs. “Gonna want to get used to calling them Muggles, D.C. It’s all the rage around here.”

“Where did that word even come from?” he exclaimed in frustration, throwing up his hands. “No-Maj makes _way_ more sense.”

Snorting, Bucky scoffed, “How does that make more sense?”

Sam raised his eyebrows like it should be obvious. “No-Maj? No _magic_?”

Bucky and Angie exchanged a glance and shrugged, Angie pointing out, “Muggle’s just more fun to say. C’mon, get with the program like Brooklyn over here.”

“Plus,” argued Bucky reasonably around a mouthful of potato, “Y’said you’re a No-Maj-born. ‘S easier t’just say Muggle-born.”

Scrunching his face up in thought, Sam shrugged begrudgingly and poked at his dinner in defeat. “Okay, it _is_ easier…”

They laughed lightly at his expression before tucking back into their food, and Bucky listened to Angie and a couple of the older girls further up the table talking about the professors for a while in silence. The dinner foods had been replaced by desserts before long (he’d disappointedly limited himself to just one brownie, but he was so stuffed from the rest of dinner he knew he’d be sick if he tried to eat more than that), and there was more than one sleepy face around the table by the time they were finished eating. Clint, on the other hand, looked more alert than he had during the Sorting and was observing the rest of the Great Hall with eyes like a hawk.

Sam caught Bucky’s gaze as they watched before cautiously asking, “You okay, dude?”

Clint jumped a little in his seat and surveyed Sam, his face oddly blank for a moment, before shrugging and taking yet another bite of his ice cream sundae. (Bucky had discreetly watched him down four slices of pizza, seven chicken wings, a plate of macaroni, two mince pies, nearly half a chocolate trifle, and now he was on his second sundae with no sign of stopping in sight.)

“Just taking it all in, man,” he mumbled around his food. “Both my parents are…Muggles, that’s the word, right?” Bucky nodded and he continued, “So yeah, little different from a cafeteria, y’know what I mean?”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down sympathetically. “I know the feeling. Must not come as much of a shock to Barnes, though, right?”

“Not really,” admitted Bucky, rubbing the back of his neck under their combined scrutiny. “My mom went here, so she kinda already told me a bunch of stuff before.”

“Cheater,” declared Clint without heat. He dug his spoon as far as it would go into his ice cream cup and frowned when all he got was a little dab of chocolate syrup for his trouble. “Rest of us gotta start from scratch.”

Scoffing, Bucky argued, “We weren’t allowed to use magic before either, so it’s not that much different.”

“Speaking _of_ ,” intruded Darcy from where she sat on Sam’s other side. She’d been engaged in conversation (or rather, _monopolizing_ the conversation) with a few other first years down at the far end of the table but perked up when she heard magic mentioned. “Anyone else glad pissy-face Phillips isn’t _actually_ teaching us any? I mean, it would _kinda_ be sorta fun to see him do something like Charms—big dude teaching a bunch of kids to make things float ‘n stuff, tell me that wouldn’t be funny as hell—but he’d probably curse you if you got it wrong.”

Silently, Bucky thought he might just agree with her there but didn’t answer as Sam retorted, “The teachers wouldn’t be allowed to do that. …Would they?” he added uncertainly to Bucky, who just shrugged.

“I mean, you’d think.”

Clint laughed a little. “Fury looks like he’d let it happen if you deserved it.”

“He’d just _turn a blind eye_ ,” snorted Darcy, sending them into fits of giggles.

Bucky happened to glance up at the High Table at that moment, the smile melting off his face as he saw Professor Fury’s visible eye focused right on them. Noticing he had Bucky’s attention, Fury lifted an eyebrow in one of the most terrifyingly unimpressed expressions he’d ever seen—and he’d grown up with his _mother_ , after all. Bucky turned to stare guiltily down at his empty plate, clearing his throat slightly.

“So…anyone else into Quidditch?” he weakly changed the subject, Clint and Darcy latching right on to the new topic while Sam looked on with a slight frown on his face. Once they explained the sport to him, he joined in the conversation here and there, usually to ask a question, and Bucky regaled the three Muggle-borns with a story about when his mom had gotten them tickets to the World Cup the summer they’d moved to London. All three were suitably impressed and excited for the Hogwarts season to start, although Darcy had a slightly different reason than the rest of them—

“Hot boys on broomsticks? Count me in!”

—and the three boys groaned in unison just as the food vanished off the table in front of them, the cutlery and dishware suddenly as clean as they had been when they’d entered the Great Hall. As if on cue, Professor Fury rose to his feet at the High Table and silence fell again. Bucky tried very hard _not_ to meet his gaze.

“Now that we’re all fed, I’d like to remind everyone to be ready bright and early for classes first thing Monday morning,” he announced, somehow managing to make it sound like a threat. Sam swallowed nervously, but Clint just rolled his eyes and took a bite of the brownie he’d spirited away right before the food had disappeared. “Remember that breakfast will be served before your classes for the day. First years, your houses eat together for feasts, but otherwise you can move to other tables to sit with your classmates in the other houses. Choose wisely. Prefects, if you’d show the rest of your houses to their dormitories.”

Without further ado, the benches at each house table scraped loudly against the stone floor as hundreds of students rushed to their feet, obviously not wanting to attract Professor Fury’s ire for not moving fast enough. Bucky followed Angie’s lead as the Hufflepuff prefects down at the end of the table by the doors to the Great Hall began to usher everyone out into the entrance hall.

T’Challa fell in beside him where he moved after his fellow Slytherins, and Bucky side-eyed him warily before asking, “So…do I call you Luke?”

“In public,” sighed T’Challa like he’d already had enough of the alias. “When there’s no one around, you can call me by my name.”

“What was the point of _broadening your horizons_ if you can’t even tell people who you are?” whispered Bucky, echoing T’Challa’s words from that day in Diagon Alley. T’Challa snorted a laugh.

“I would get special treatment if people knew. My father wanted to avoid that,” he breathed back, both watching to make sure no one was listening in.

“Does Fury know?”

T’Challa nodded, and both boys looked ahead to see the lines splitting up, the Slytherins heading for the grand staircase. “He had to, but none of the other professors know.”

They didn’t have time to say anything else before their paths diverged, muttering a quick goodbye before the Slytherins moved down the stairs and Bucky followed the Hufflepuffs through a door to the right of the Great Hall. The throng of students made its way down a flight of steps and emerged in a stone corridor lined with torches and paintings depicting mostly food.

Bucky laughed when Clint groaned beside him. “Aw, hungry…”

“You just ate enough to sink a ship!” exclaimed Sam incredulously on his other side. Clint flipped them both off as they passed all the portraits and came to a halt in front of a small, dark recess where piles of barrels were stacked against the wall. One of the prefects, a girl with a surly expression and dark hair cropped close to her head like a buzz cut, turned to look at the students assembled.

“The Hufflepuff common room and dormitories are through here,” she informed them in an impassive tone. “You can’t just walk in. You have to tap the right barrel in the right way or you’ll end up covered in vinegar—I don’t suggest trying it, you’ll reek for days.”

Bucky blinked, glancing at Sam to see the same gobsmacked expression on his face.

The prefect went on to show them how to tap the middle barrel of the second row in the correct rhythm (Helga Hufflepuff’s name) and warned them to _never_ tell students from other houses before the wall of barrels turned translucent before them. She walked right through the wall, leading the way up a sloping tunnel into a large round room with a low ceiling. There were tapestries everywhere in yellow and black, the house colors, and images of badgers here and there on the house sigil. Tables and comfortable plush couches were scattered about the common room with an enormous fireplace on the far end, a portrait of who Bucky assumed was Helga Hufflepuff herself toasting them from over the mantel. There were small circular windows lining the room with two round doors to match, and plants grew here and there on windowsills and along the wall. Even though it was dark outside the windows, the room exuded warmth and light in a cozy, homey way.

“You can come to the common room between classes or after curfew,” explained the boy prefect, a towering figure with surprisingly large muscles for his apparent age. He had a steely glint in his eyes and an accent Bucky thought might be Russian, but he was much warmer than the girl prefect, who stood by with her arms folded as she watched the proceedings. “The doors over there lead to the dormitories. All of your belongings should already be there waiting for you.”

They went on to explain where they could find the restrooms and shower, and then the students were left to their own devices. The returning students (who were already well aware of how all this worked) had entered and headed for the dormitories while the first years were listening to instructions, so the common room was fairly empty by the time the prefects retired and the boys and girls split up to go to their separate dormitories. Bucky pushed open the boys’ door to see a corridor lined with _other_ doors, each labeled with a year number. Bucky, Sam, and Clint were the only first year boys, so they had the dormitory to themselves.

It looked fairly similar to the common room: round with small circular windows set high into the walls. There were wooden beds for each of them, plus a couple of extras, all covered with bright yellow and black patchwork quilts. There was a small bedside table and wardrobe on the wall next to each bed, and their trunks were indeed waiting for them.

Bucky immediately made a beeline for Winter’s cage, popping the latch and crouching down to see the kitten’s reproachful eyes glaring out at him as she nibbled on her stuffed mouse toy.

“Come on, don’t look at me like that,” he chuckled, poking a finger inside the cage for her to sniff. Winter very primly ignored it for a long moment before apparently deciding that ten seconds of being ignored was a good enough punishment and then swatted a paw at his hand. Grinning, Bucky reached inside and plucked her out; she’d grown a bit in the two months since his dad had bought her, but she was still on the small side and fit easily in two palms. She abandoned her mouse in the cage and pawed her way up Bucky’s chest before nestling in her favorite spot just under his jaw.

When he turned back around, Sam was running his fingers through the feathers of a handsome black owl and Clint was glaring unabashedly at the ball of fur cuddled up to Bucky’s chest.

Lifting an eyebrow in challenge, Bucky grunted, “What?”

Clint just grumbled slightly before opening his trunk and muttering, “Cats, man.”

_Guess he’s a dog person._

“You’ll live,” Bucky smirked, glancing over at Sam in silent inquiry. The latter shrugged.

“Long as she doesn’t eat Redwing, we’re good.”

“No problems there.”

Grinning, Sam grabbed his pajamas and headed out the door to find the lavatory while Bucky and Clint changed in silence, the day finally catching up with them. Clint occasionally shot a distrustful glance at Winter, and as if sensing his discomfort, she just stared at him with her big pinkish-orange eyes as he moved around the room. Once he was settled in bed, she hopped off Bucky’s quilt where he’d left her and curiously moved to Clint’s side of the room, clawing lightly at the edge of his bed until the scratching drew his attention and he leaned over to watch her.

“What d’you want, cat?” he grumbled, squinting down at her.

She just meowed.

Snorting, Bucky took pity on both of them and offered, “You can pick her up.” He then threw himself down on his bed and watched as Clint reached out a wary hand and plucked her from the floor, holding her at arm’s length.

Winter batted a paw at his face and meowed derisively. If she could speak, Bucky was positive she’d be saying, _“You scared?”_

Clint appeared to feel the same and, visibly steeling himself, brought her closer until she managed to lean forward and lick a stripe up his nose playfully.

“Eurgh!” groaned Clint, although he didn’t move to pull her away. “Cats have the worst tongues, man!”

Bucky just laughed, observing the interaction. After a minute with no pets or snuggles, Winter fidgeted enough in Clint’s hands for him to drop her to the bedspread and dashed back to Bucky’s bed. Sam reentered the room just as Bucky plopped her down on the pillow beside his head, frowning at the way Clint was rubbing his nose.

“Do I wanna know?” he asked with a sigh, heading back to his own bed.

“Nah,” Bucky snorted. “Clint just made a new best friend, that’s all.”

“Shut it, Barnes!”

“Make me, Barton!”

“I’m rooming with a couple’a babies,” mumbled Sam, climbing into bed and blowing out the candle on his bedside table.

The three settled in for the night after that, but it was a while before Bucky could get to sleep. He sat up long after the other two had drifted off, scratching Winter’s head lightly as she nuzzled into the side of his face from her perch at the corner of his pillow. He just couldn’t believe he was here, and even though it would have been nice to be in the same house as Steve, they were both at Hogwarts together just like they’d wanted.

Tomorrow was the start of a new adventure, and when Bucky eventually nodded off in the early hours of the morning, he couldn’t be more excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, I have no idea how to put a hyperlink in, but here's what Winter looks like: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/37/dd/bf/37ddbf0f52a79bd04ac7e1e87dc053f6.jpg 
> 
> Also, thank you to anyone who's left kudos/comments or subscribed! Your feedback is very important to me! :)


	5. Something Old, Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now fully written and part two is well underway, so updates should continue to come every day or every other day as I finish editing.

“Freaking magic, you have _got_ to be kidding me…”

Edging closer and closer to consciousness, Bucky blearily pried his eyes open to see Sam holding his robes up to the light with a look of amazement. Bucky buried his face back in the pillow and mumbled, “Whazzup?”

“Our robes, man. They changed while we were asleep!”

Frowning, Bucky lifted his head again and turned to look at where he’d dropped his clothes on a chair the night before. He hadn’t bothered to fold them, too busy teasing Clint and getting ready for bed at the time, but they were neatly organized now. Sam was right, though: that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. There were yellow lines decorating the edges of his vest now, and the inside of his hood was similarly pigmented; on the breast of his robes was the Hufflepuff sigil set stark and bright against the otherwise black fabric.

_Huh. They don’t waste time._

“Cool,” he murmured, falling face-first back into his nice warm pillow. He heard Sam scoff across the dormitory.

“’Cool,’ he says. Just cool, no big deal. Grew up with all this junk, so it’s totally normal. Nothing to see here.”

Sam’s grumbling continued uninterrupted for a few minutes before it was abruptly cut off by a thumping sound and Sam’s surprised exclamation. Bucky turned his head and peered out with one eye to watch Sam turn towards Clint’s bed, jaw open and clearly miffed even though Clint didn’t appear to have moved.

“Seriously, Barton?”

“Quitcher talkin’, ‘s too early,” was the muffled reply, and Clint didn’t even deign to raise his head.

Sam frowned and glanced quickly at his watch. “It’s after ten.”

“Yeah. Too early.”

Bucky chortled at that and sat up since, due to the unfortunate circumstances of the conversation, he was now awake. Winter opened one eye to glare up at him, appearing equally disgruntled about the time, before ducking her head under her paw and going right back to sleep.

“Guessing you like waking up early?” Bucky asked Sam as he stretched and rolled out of bed. He plucked up the same robes from yesterday and, wondering if he could get away with wearing them again, brought them to his nose; they smelled freshly laundered, so he figured it would be all right. He sniffed himself as an afterthought and came to the conclusion that _that_ would _not_ be all right. _Shower first, then breakfast._

“Not you too,” groaned Sam, straightening his robes in his wardrobe mirror with a derisive glance over his shoulder at Bucky. “Ten isn’t early!”

“It is when it’s Sunday.”

Sam rolled his eyes and closed the door of the wardrobe. “Whatever, man. I’ll see you guys at breakfast.”

Clint offered nothing but a muffled grunt in reply and Bucky shrugged, translating, “Maybe lunch.”

Once Sam was out the door, Bucky practically sprinted down the hall to the bathrooms to relieve himself and grab a quick shower, regretting not having gone the night before. It was more impressive than he’d thought it would be: the shower stalls were filled with various taps holding two or three different soaps and shampoos, and the water required no time at all to warm up even in a huge stone castle like this. He was in a hurry, his stomach growling more unhappily than Winter on a bath day, but if he took a little longer than usual just perusing the various options—well, no one had to know about that.

He emerged about half an hour later with a (magically warm) towel wrapped around him and returned to find Clint hadn’t moved an inch. Winter was awake and lying on her back in the middle of his bed, gnawing at her toy mouse until she caught a glimpse of him coming back into the room and rolled over to meow at him pitifully.

“Yeah, I know you’re hungry,” cooed Bucky, giving her a quick scratch under her chin before heading to his trunk to grab the cat food and tonic he’d stowed away at the bottom and her bowl. She wasn’t pleased at having to hop down from her lofty perch just to do something as trivial as eat, but Bucky wanted to make the bed so he didn’t get a bunch of her fur in it, so he figured she could deal.

While his kitten ate, he slipped into the robes from yesterday and threw his bed together with a level of neatness his mother would be appalled at before heading out of the dormitory and through the common room. There were a couple of older Hufflepuffs taking up residence on the couch and talking about something in hushed voices, and another pair were engaged in an apparently vicious game of wizard chess, but otherwise it was fairly empty. Bucky assumed the majority of the students were still asleep like Clint, at breakfast like Sam, or outside enjoying what would probably be one of the last good days of the year if what his mom had said about the weather was anything to go by.

Bucky ducked into the tunnel across the common room, jogged down until he emerged in the long corridor lined with portraits, and continued on his way to the Great Hall. Just as he thought, the place was pretty crowded with sleepy students picking at their breakfasts. From what he could tell, most of them had taken Fury’s words from last night to heart and were basically sitting wherever they wanted, the house tables having been abandoned while groups of students from multiple houses mingled all around the room. Bucky made a quick scan of each table before he found the little blond head he’d been looking for and made straight for him where he sat with Sam, plopping down on the bench beside Steve with a grin.

“Gryffindor, Stevie, _really?_ ” he harped right away, clicking his tongue as he reached across Steve for the bacon. The latter just rolled his eyes, swatting at his hand but ruining the effect by scooting the plate closer.

“Don’t be jealous we have a better mascot than you,” Steve snarkily retorted as he ate a spoonful of porridge.

“Please, badgers are badass.”

“At least you’re in the right house—you badger me enough.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?” laughed Sam across the table, pointedly gazing down at the house sigil on his robes.

Unaffected, Steve nodded. “That’s how it is.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They continued to banter back and forth while Bucky poured himself a glass of orange juice and piled his plate high with bacon, eggs, and toast. (He wasn’t sure how he could be so hungry when he’d eaten a ton at the feast last night, but there it was.) By the time he was finished, Sam had already shared his excitement over the surprise they’d gotten this morning—albeit in a much calmer manner—and Steve was describing their common room.

“It’s pretty cool until you look out the window and see how far up you are,” he observed, cringing slightly. Steve wasn’t the biggest fan of heights, but Bucky absolutely refused to believe it had anything to do with the time he dragged Steve onto the Cyclone at Coney Island. That hadn’t ended well.

“Least you get a view,” Bucky comforted him, swallowing his bite of toast and jam. “We’re pretty much underground.”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, we’ve got windows, but you can’t see much.”

“It’s still better than the Slytherin common room,” muttered Steve, shooting Bucky a mildly confused look. “ _Luke_ said they’re in the dungeons.”

Both Bucky and Sam groaned in unison, the former deliberately ignoring Steve’s cue for an explanation. He still had to have that chat with T’Challa, and he really didn’t think it would be appropriate to do in the middle of breakfast. Although, as he glanced around, Bucky didn’t see the Slytherin anywhere in sight.

“When did you talk to Luke?” he asked casually. Steve seemed to take the hint that he wasn’t going to get an answer to his unspoken question, but his eyes narrowed marginally as if to say that this wasn’t the end of it.

“He was here earlier. Said he was gonna do some reading and left right before you got here.”

Snickering, Sam commented, “Would’ve thought only the Ravenclaws would be in the library today.”

“Then he’ll be in good company,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in behind Bucky, and he turned to see a Gryffindor with shoulder-length blond hair smiling down at them.

“Hey, Thor,” greeted Steve through a mouthful of porridge. He swallowed before pointing out, “This is Bucky and Sam. Thor’s in our year.”

Somehow, Bucky found that _extremely_ hard to believe. He hadn’t noticed Thor at the feast last night and wouldn’t have placed him as being any less than fifth year based on his height and the size of his muscles. He wasn’t quite sure if Steve had felt the same way when they’d met, but then again everyone had to feel like they were towering giants when you were Steve.

_…Better not say that one out loud._

“Good to meet you,” Sam said politely as Thor nodded in his direction and then turned his gaze on Bucky.

“Steve has told me about you.”

“Oh, really?” He grinned cautiously at his best friend.

“He said you are insufferable but get better with time.”

“Gee, thanks, Steve,” deadpanned Bucky while the others laughed at his expense.

“Anytime, Buck.”

Thor took a seat on the other side of Steve and heaped bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and beans on his plate until they could hardly see the gold underneath. He delved in with a gusto that somehow managed to rival Clint’s, and Bucky couldn’t do more than stare until Steve elbowed him painfully in the side.

“So, Thor, where’s the accent from?” asked Sam once Thor surfaced for air.

Washing his food down with tea, Thor answered, “My family is from Norway.”

_That explains the name._

Seeming to think along the same lines, Sam joked wryly, “The god thing didn’t give it away _at all_.”

Thor laughed, a thunderous sound, and threw his head back. More than one pair of eyes turned in their direction to see what the fuss was about, but Thor paid them no mind when he eventually calmed down enough to explain, “My parents are very interested in Norse mythology. At least I was lucky—my brother’s name is _Loki_.”

“Nice,” Bucky sniggered. “Does he already go here?”

“No…” Thor trailed off for a moment, his demeanor souring slightly as he glanced around to ensure no one else was listening in. He leaned toward them regardless, and the three bent their heads forward instinctively. “He’s a year younger than me, but he hasn’t shown any signs of magic at all. We believe he may be a Squib.”

Sam frowned, looking to Steve and Bucky for an explanation. Taking pity on him, Steve elucidated, “That’s someone who has magical parents but doesn’t actually become a witch or wizard.”

Bucky was surprised to hear that Steve’s voice didn’t adopt the same bitter tone it usually did when discussing this subject, but he supposed talking about it from _inside Hogwarts_ probably had a lot to do with that. Like just about everything else, magic had come to Steve pretty late compared to most kids. Bucky had exhibited signs of being a wizard when he was three years old and made his mother’s fresh cookies fly straight off the baking sheet onto the table in front of him after she’d said they were for new neighbors and he couldn’t have any. Steve, on the other hand, hadn’t done even accidental magic until after he’d turned seven, and they weren’t even sure at the time that it _was_ magic—light bulbs could blow out on their own, they didn’t need to wait for Steve Rogers to get pissed off over something. The fact that it had been every light bulb in the house, however, had made it a little more definitive. Nonetheless, the subject of Squibs had always made Steve a bit tetchy, like saying the word too loud would make someone realize they’d made a mistake and give his powers to someone else. They tended to avoid talking about it, so it was nice to see that he’d evidently gotten past some of his brooding.

“Is that…bad?” Sam inquired, glancing back and forth between Steve and Thor. Both of them shook their heads, although Steve’s expression was far fiercer than his fellow Gryffindor’s.

“No, it isn’t bad,” Thor replied after a moment. He glanced down at his plate, thinking carefully before he continued, “My father treats my brother differently because of it, and Loki thinks he’s not as proud having a Muggle son.”

“It shouldn’t matter if he’s a Muggle or not—he’s still his _son_.” There was that old Steve Rogers fire, and Steve glared at Thor as though he could somehow channel his thoughts through to his father’s mind instead.

Thor nodded. “Which is what our mother has told him, that our father is just as proud. He just doesn’t see it that way and tries _so hard_ to impress him.”

“Does it work?” wondered Bucky, biting his lip when Thor shook his head.

“Not as much as he would like. My coming here only made it worse, I think.”

The four fell silent after that, and a glance around the table told Bucky that Steve and Sam were just as at a loss for what to say about all that as he was. Becca hadn’t shown any signs of having magic yet, but she was still just six; even if that _was_ a little later than most, there really wasn’t any time frame for when magical abilities began to manifest according to his mom. Still, if she never had any powers at all, he couldn’t imagine his mom or dad loving her any less. The idea that anyone could be _that_ obsessed with magic was…well, it was sad.

They sat awkwardly for a few minutes, Thor poking at his food instead of inhaling it now, until a screech from above had them looking up to see dozens of owls entering through the windows in the ceiling with the post. Some were carrying large parcels, undoubtedly items that had been forgotten and sent from home; others held a letter or rolled up newspaper in their beaks or talons. One of the lattermost landed neatly in front of Bucky, scarcely managing to miss plowing straight into the marmalade, and dropped a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the table before immediately taking off again.

Bucky glared down at the paper with a groan, Steve laughing loudly beside him. It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t care about what was happening in the rest of the Wizarding world per se, but he just figured he’d hear all the important stuff from his mother if it was worth knowing. Given that he couldn’t hear it straight from the horse’s mouth now, however, and based on the fact that the owl hadn’t stayed to collect payment, he assumed his mother had taken it upon herself to order him a subscription to the _Prophet_ while he was at school.

_Oh joy. Can’t she send cookies like everyone else’s mother?_

“Your mom?” inquired Steve with a smirk, already well aware of the answer but just rubbing it in like the little punk he was.

Sam held a hand over his mouth to hide his grin while Thor didn’t even bother. Bucky ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, glaring at the paper like it had done him a personal disservice.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, rolling the paper between his hands. He looked up at Sam and Thor to explain with an appropriate level of snark, “She likes to give me the gift of current events.”

Thor guffawed, apparently one of those people who didn’t see a need to temper their emotions, but Sam turned more sympathetic as he asked, “She big on politics?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to laugh again. “His mom _is_ politics.”

Bucky let him take over explaining as he plucked the paper up and unrolled it, frowning down at the moving pictures on the front page. Much to his surprise, his mother smiled up at him from one of them. The entire front page was filled with an article entitled, “UNDERSECRETARY PROMOTES NEW PRO-MUGGLE ‘BARNES INITIATIVE’ – MINISTER REFUSES COMMENT.”

“What the…?” Bucky shoved his unfinished breakfast to the side and flattened the paper out on the table, only vaguely aware of the others pausing their conversation and Steve leaning in to read over his shoulder.

> _Winifred Barnes, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, has spent many months working towards new legislation that will require the Ministry to work in close cooperation with Muggle governments in an effort to bridge the gap between Muggle and magical communities. The new bill, tentatively titled the “Barnes Initiative,” is aimed primarily at the major British governing bodies in hopes of determining where the two groups can work together in the future, but Barnes has commented that this measure would be the first step in completely erasing the barrier that currently stands between Muggles and the open awareness of the existing Wizarding world._
> 
> _“There are so many things we can achieve by working together that otherwise would be impossible,” Barnes told_ Daily Prophet _correspondent Jonah Jameson in a recent interview. “Just imagine what could be accomplished if Muggles and wizards put forth their best efforts to jointly manage law enforcement, national security, and international trade. Think about the illnesses plaguing Muggles all over the world that we have the means to cure. Consider how the job market would change for the better if mutual employment opportunities existed. Closer cooperation can only mean one thing: the betterment of all mankind, if we’re brave enough to take the steps toward it.”_
> 
> _While Barnes’s efforts are popular among officials throughout Europe’s Wizarding community, and her aims are certainly beneficial if not slightly idealistic, the official declaration of the Ministry’s consideration of the bill has been met with both optimism as well as vicious dissent from many others._
> 
> _Conservative and purist groups are claiming that the idea is laughable at best and dangerous at worst. Alexander Pierce, headmaster of Durmstrang Institute and long-time friend of Minister Stern, had this to say in response to the Barnes Initiative:_
> 
> _“No one doubts that her heart is in the right place, but the fact remains that dissolving the separation between us and the Muggles will only lead to a return to the dark ages.”_
> 
> _Minister Stern’s opinion is still a mystery, and he has refused to make any substantive claims regarding the future of the bill._
> 
> _“At this point, the only thing I can say for certain is this,” Minister Stern responded to questions posed by Jameson as he arrived for a diplomatic luncheon in Kensington. “There will be a lot of debate in the coming months and a lot of amending the current bill before it is put forth for final approval. Nothing is set in stone just yet, so please do not panic.”_
> 
> _For more about the specifics of the Barnes Initiative – page 11_

When Bucky looked up, Steve’s eyebrows had drawn together in thought and they exchanged a long look before Bucky rolled the paper back up and set it aside. He’d been aware of what his mom was planning after their trip around the continent this summer, and she’d always talked about finding a way to unify the world even before she was the undersecretary. Bucky hadn’t realized that people would get so worried about it, though. After all, his mom was right. How many times had Steve been sick over the years but would have gotten _so much worse_ if not for the potions Sarah was able to brew for him? How often had his dad been watching the Muggle news and seen some atrocity only for his mother to grumble that wizards could have avoided the issue altogether?

Not everyone, it seemed, shared her opinion.

“Guess it’s not gonna be as easy as meeting a few politicians,” Bucky murmured to Steve, who nodded grimly and patted his shoulder.

 

***

 

After breakfast, Bucky and Sam hurried back to the dormitory to retrieve Winter and change into jeans and T-shirts (since Darcy so kindly laughed in their faces about wearing robes on the weekends) while Steve did the same before meeting back up with them in the entrance hall. Thor had already left to spend time out on the grounds, and Clint was still in bed, so the three explored the castle for the better part of the day. Watching Sam’s expressions was probably the most fun part, although Bucky couldn’t deny that there were a few things that got him pretty excited in spite of his magical upbringing. They lingered for a long time on the grand staircase, watching the inhabitants of the various portraits chatting with one another and moving from painting to painting in search of entertainment.

“I get the whole moving picture thing,” Sam commented slowly as they eventually continued up the steps toward the fourth floor. “But why do they _leave_ their pictures?”

Steve shrugged, answering his question with another: “Wouldn’t you get bored hanging out in the same painting all day?”

Sam didn’t have a response to that.

The library was right in the middle of the fourth floor corridor and, when they entered, Bucky’s mouth fell open. He wasn’t a huge fan of reading unless it was comic books or science fiction, but the sight of the library was still enough to completely amaze him. There had to be tens of thousands of books all over the place, housed in towering shelves that made him feel like he was the size of an ant. Tables were placed here and there between the stacks for students to study, read, or work, and a few students had already taken the opportunity to get an early start on the new term. The librarian prowled around one of the shelves as they stared, glaring in their direction for a moment before Bucky realized she had taken offense to him bringing Winter along and probably thought she’d tear through half the books (as if that were possible). They beat a pretty hasty retreat after they got a quick look at a few shelves, Winter defiantly watching the librarian’s profile receding in the distance over his shoulder, as they continued their tour.

It took a while, but by the time their stomachs were grumbling for lunch, they decided to grab something from the Great Hall and spend the rest of the day outside enjoying the good weather. As Bucky had assumed earlier that morning, most of the other students were doing the same and there were numerous groups congregated around the courtyard or, further out, on the shores of the Black Lake. Bucky spotted the Quidditch pitch in the distance around the side of the castle and noticed tiny figures riding around on broomsticks with a stab of jealousy. No matter how hard he tried, his mother had remained unaffected by his pleading for a racing broom all summer, although she _did_ tell him that if he kept his grades up all year, she _might_ be convinced to get him one for next term. It was incentive enough, but Bucky still wished he could give it a try regardless.

They found an unoccupied spot under a tree near the lake and took up residence, eating the lunch they’d brought with them as Winter poked a paw into the water curiously. Apparently it wasn’t to her taste, because she was trotting back to Bucky’s lap with a discomfited meow a second later and snuggled up close to his stomach while he finished his food. He gave her a quick scratch before tuning in to the discussion between Sam and Steve again.

Oddly enough, his mother was sort of the topic of conversation.

“Why shouldn’t we work with No-Majs?” Steve was ranting, violently plucking blades of grass out of the ground. “We’re all still _people_ , and we can help each other.”

Sam shook his head with an uneasy expression. “Yeah, but think about what would happen if you just told a bunch of ‘em that there are witches and wizards who can do pretty much anything with a wave of their wand.”

“I don’t think they’d get rid of the laws against using magic on Muggles, though,” retorted Bucky reasonably as he brushed crumbs off his jeans.

“Would they care?”

Bucky couldn’t answer that, so Steve charged in as usual. “It’s the Ministry’s job to tell them. They’re not worried about No-Majs getting scared—it’s a bunch of pureblood-obsessed freaks who think No-Majs aren’t good enough to know anything.”

“How do you know that?” inquired Sam, frowning deeply. Steve plucked the _Daily Prophet_ up from where it had been sitting next to him and unrolled it for the millionth time in their argument. (Bucky hadn’t wanted it after perusing the rest at breakfast to see if there was anything else worth reading, so he’d given it to Steve when he asked.)

“’ _Conservative and purist groups’,_ ” quoted Steve with a disgusted shake of his head. “Bunch’a bullies. They just want all magic all the time.”

Sam paused a moment, pulling up a blade of grass and holding it out for Winter to paw at. “Do they…” he muttered after silent consideration. “They’re probably not big on the whole Muggle-born thing then, are they?”

Bucky shared a quick glance with Steve and grimaced slightly, shooting Sam a sympathetic look. “Lots of ‘em don’t think Muggle-borns are much better than Muggles. They think they’re better than Squibs, but not by much.”

“That’s part of the reason why a lot of kids get waivers to come here instead of other schools,” continued Steve with a sigh. “Some don’t really like anyone less than half-blood.”

“Like you guys?”

Bucky nodded. There had been plenty of times over the years that he’d wondered what it would be like to grow up in a house where nobody had any magic and they had to get by the hard way, but ultimately he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad to never have had to find out. Yeah, Steve was being pretty nice about it and there were lots of purists who thought half-bloods were filthy because their magical parent had married a Muggle, but it wasn’t the same. Besides, given the fact that his mother had been in politics since before he was born and was low-key aiming to be Minister for Magic one day, a lot of people turned a blind eye to his father’s lack of magical ability when the whole family accompanied her to events.

Sam, on the other hand, was persona non grata to people who had a stick up their butt about being of magical descent.

Seeing the sadness in Sam’s eyes and the frustration in Steve’s, Bucky cleared his throat and tried, “So…happy topics? Anyone?”

The other two managed a heavy laugh, but they turned their conversation to other things, like wondering about their professors and classes and, in Sam and Bucky’s case, telling Steve about their surly roommate and his dislike of cats. Said surly roommate showed up not long after, throwing himself down on the grass and joining the conversation as though he’d been invited, and Bucky introduced him with a meaningful look to Steve as they watched Clint eyeing Winter warily.

The kitten paid him no mind, continuing to sharpen her tiny claws on the abandoned _Daily Prophet_. Bucky had to admit that it was a pretty good use for the paper, to be honest, putting the article out of his mind in favor of groaning over the fact that he’d forgotten to write his parents and would probably have a Howler by breakfast if he didn’t send it out before dinner.

 Like the jerks they were, the others laughed at him.

 

***

 

Monday dawned bright and early just like Fury had warned them the night of the welcome feast, and Bucky rolled out of bed with a groan to join Sam and Clint as they prepared for breakfast. The latter was clearly unhappy about being up at a reasonable hour, especially since it had only been Sam’s prompting and eventually smacking that had roused him from his bed, and was only communicating in grunts or rude hand gestures. They finished and met up with Steve, Thor, and T’Challa for breakfast before heading to their first class: Transfiguration.

It wasn’t exactly the class Bucky was most excited for, but he figured it had to be useful to learn anyway. His mother was an expert at using magic to shift various objects into plates and silverware during the holidays when, as she put it, _it all just seems to bloody vanish just when I need it_.

Their teacher, Professor Pym, was an older man with a chip on his shoulder and a sarcastic demeanor that Bucky half-liked, half-hated as he explained the purpose of the supposed _art_ of Transfiguration and the rules of the class.

“Rule number one: you don’t touch anything or use any magic unless I tell you to,” Pym directed with a stern look around the room. “Rule number two: refer to rule number one. Do I make myself very clear?”

The goody two-shoes and the class clowns had answered in the affirmative, the latter with far more mockery and wicked grinning, while the rest of them just grunted or nodded in response. Bucky felt a little disappointed about the no-magic rule until Pym told them a story about when one student turned another student’s head into a fishbowl and couldn’t change it back a few years ago. After that, it made a whole lot more sense.

Pym wrote a few notes up on the board, mostly about what Transfiguration was and what they would need to do in order to master it, before passing out plain coat buttons. Bucky rolled his under his palm, feeling bored to tears already, while Pym instructed them to use the spell he’d mentioned before to turn the button into a marble.

That, at least, was a little more interesting, not that Bucky managed to succeed by the end of class. Steve looked like he wanted to toss his button out the window, though, so he obviously wasn’t alone in his frustration. Still, at least theirs didn’t do anything at all; some of their classmates weren’t so lucky. Darcy somehow managed to set hers on fire, never mind the fact that it was _plastic_ and therefore _shouldn’t burn_ if Pym’s expression was anything to go by, and Sam’s whizzed around the room like a fly instead of changing. However, it wasn’t until Clint’s button spontaneously combusted and blew up his entire station that Pym decided they had all had enough for one day, repairing the desk with a flick of his wand and glowering down at Clint. True to form, Clint was utterly unconcerned with the turn of events and actually looked like he thought it was pretty cool, hair flying in all directions and scrapes from flying debris marring his cheeks.

“You’re right,” whispered Steve as they left the classroom, eyes on Clint’s back where he was vividly describing to Sam what it was like to be _in the middle_ of an explosion. “He’s nuts.”

Bucky hummed, mumbling, “At least Pym isn’t making us practice for homework. Don’t want him blowing up our room.”

“Or making it cave in on top of ours,” agreed T’Challa darkly. Of the entire class, he and a girl named Jane had come closest to accomplishing the spell, their buttons turning almost transparent with the cat’s eye swirl inside. Halfway was better than nothing—and infinitely more desirable than pyrotechnics—but he’d still been put out with not getting it right the first day.

The rest of their first week proceeded similarly to their Transfiguration class, passing in a whirlwind of their various teachers reminding them that _magic isn’t a game and must be used wisely_ , copying notes from blackboards, and trying new spells that always sounded a lot easier than they really were. By Friday, Bucky and Steve were both proud to say they’d successfully transfigured their buttons and levitated feathers in their Charms class (where, much to Steve’s chagrin, Professor Stark was almost but not _quite_ as obnoxious as his son). However, the thrill of their successes didn’t keep Steve from falling off his broom in their first flying lesson and going to the hospital wing with a sprained ankle on Wednesday; nor did it stop Bucky from accidentally burning a hole through his sleeve in Potions class—which Professor Erskine said was a common occurrence and mended almost immediately so he didn’t have to tell his mom. They took the wins with the losses, though, and by the end of their first week things were going fairly well.

Or at least they were going well for everyone who wasn’t Clint Barton, who managed to blow something up in every lesson, including History of Magic. Professor Hill had kept him after class to have _words_ , and he arrived to dinner looking thoroughly scolded that night.

Things were going so great, as a matter of fact, that Bucky forgot that shit eventually _always_ hit the fan, particularly when you were best friends with one Steve Rogers.

The Monday of their second week, Bucky stayed behind after Astronomy to talk to Professor Heimdall about something he’d seen in the sky over the weekend when they were supposed to be making basic star charts. Steve, Sam, T’Challa, and Clint—the latter three having become fast friends in just a little over a week—offered to wait for him, but he waved them off and said he’d see them at dinner. Not only did he not want to hold them up, but he was a little embarrassed to admit that Astronomy was his favorite class and wanted the freedom to geek out in peace, especially since Clint and Sam would tease him mercilessly if they knew. (Clint had taken to Defense Against the Dark Arts like a fish to water, and Sam was similarly enamored with flying and Charms.)

By the time he finished going over what he’d found and recorded, Professor Heimdall stating with a rare smile that Bucky had an eye for detail he hadn’t seen in quite some time, most students had already dropped their schoolbags in their dormitories and were heading down to the Great Hall for dinner. Most students, it seemed, except for a crowd that Bucky came across on the third floor, laughing and cheering raucously at something he couldn’t see and effectively blocking the corridor.

He was just about to turn around and find another way downstairs when a voice in the middle of the crowd triumphantly cried, _“Levicorpus!”_ and a familiar body was suddenly dangling in the air by his ankle.

 _Two weeks. He couldn’t make it_ two weeks _without getting into a fight?!_

Tossing his schoolbag to the side of the corridor, Bucky shoved his way roughly through the crowd, which parted as other students looked down at him in surprise. By the time he made it into the center where Steve was, Bucky had whipped out his wand and was aiming it at the bigger kid with wavy light brown hair who was jeering up at his friend.

“Put him down,” growled Bucky, grip steady on his wand as the Slytherin boy’s eyes flicked to him. He wasn’t a whole lot bigger than Bucky and couldn’t have been much older, but he sneered down at him like he was three inches tall.

“You gonna make me?”

“If I have to.”

“Ooh hoo!” The Slytherin nodded with a look of utmost glee on his face, glancing around the circle at the other students, some of whom had started laughing at the display. “Big words. You even know any spells yet?”

Bucky didn’t have a chance to reply before a voice behind him calmly asserted, “If he doesn’t, I certainly do.”

 _Peggy_.

For the first time, the Slytherin actually seemed to take a threat seriously, and his face paled slightly as he looked over Bucky’s right shoulder. Peggy stepped up beside Bucky a moment later, the second-year Slytherin casually holding her wand at her side as she waited patiently. There was something underlying her cool demeanor, however, which quite frankly terrified Bucky; he was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of it, that was for sure.

The boy swallowed hard, glancing between Peggy and Steve before raising his wand again and muttering, _“Finite.”_

It wasn’t the most graceful method, but at least it was effective as Steve landed in a heap on the floor. The crowd was already dissipating around them, and the bully vanished pretty quickly along with them under Peggy’s glare while Bucky crouched down by Steve’s side.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” grumbled Steve, already struggling to his feet and ignoring the hand Bucky offered. Bucky watched him instead, remembering his irritation at seeing Steve back in a fight to begin with, and mentally prepared an angry diatribe before Peggy beat him to the punch.

“What the bloody hell happened, Steve?” she inquired angrily, stowing her wand and putting both hands on her hips in a nearly spot-on imitation of Sarah Rogers at her angriest. Steve seemed to make the same connection and appeared to be fighting against the natural instinct to curl inwards under his mother’s wrath.

“He called some kid a Mudblood,” muttered Steve, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible volume when he repeated the slur.

Peggy’s expression softened slightly, but her voice was still hard as she deduced, “And you took it upon yourself to teach him a lesson when you’ve barely learned how to hold your wand yet, is that it?”

Steve wisely didn’t answer, scuffing his shoe against the ground. If Bucky had been grilling him, he’d have fired back with both barrels, but he apparently didn’t want to offend someone who hadn’t known him long enough to be used to his ire.

_At least that’s something._

“Fists aren’t gonna work here, pal,” Bucky finally chimed in, sighing. He walked over to pick up his bag where he’d abandoned it before and returned, shooting Steve a frustrated look. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t showed up?”

“I’d’ve figured it out, Buck,” Steve immediately rejoined with a sharp, angry eye roll in his direction.

“Like you always do?”

Steve opened his mouth, his eyes flashing, but Peggy cut him off by asking Bucky, “So this is a normal thing?”

“You have no idea. He’ll fight anything till he gets in over his head, and then it’s over pretty quick.”

Glaring, Steve defended, “You know why I do it.”

“For good reason, I’m sure,” Peggy sighed, motioning for them to start walking. They were alone in the corridor now, but dinner had started long enough ago that they’d miss it if they waited around too long. “Still, you could always say your piece and then leave. Hodge is an arse, but he’s a coward when it comes down to it.”

“Never really works out that way,” huffed Steve, grimacing as he put weight on his left leg but managing to walk without limping.

“No, you’ll get beat up anywhere you can instead,” pointed out Bucky glibly, earning the finger from Steve.

“Do you have something against running away?” Although Bucky could still see the concern and frustration on Peggy’s face, her question seemed genuine.

Steve shrugged, eyes on the ground as he explained, “You start running, they’ll never let you stop. You stand up, push back… Can’t say no forever, right?”

The three fell silent, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls around them. Bucky really didn’t have anything to reply to that, especially since he and Steve had gone round and round over this very subject as far back as he could remember, but it seemed Steve had even stumped Peggy as well. They didn’t say anything else until they approached the Great Hall, the noise from inside growing exponentially the nearer they drew. Before she split off to join her friends, Peggy tenderly pecked a kiss to Steve’s cheek and then shot him an incongruously serious look.

“It’s admirable to stand up to them, but don’t be afraid to let someone have your back either,” she warned him, nodding to Bucky and then leaving them in the entrance hall.

Bucky and Steve stood staring after her in silence for a long moment before Bucky clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder, shaking him out of his amazed stupor.

“I like her,” declared Bucky, leading the way into the Great Hall. “She’s smart.”

Steve, who was starting to cool down a bit from the fight and subsequent argument, smirked up at him. “Smarter than you.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”


	6. Muggle Methods

Hodge may have been a coward, but tormenting Steve rapidly became his new pastime.

It didn’t seem to matter where they were, Hodge was ready with a smarmy comment or spell he knew would get Steve riled up. More than once, Bucky had simply happened across Steve hanging upside down in the corridor, other students laughing as they passed him instead of trying to help. He’d even hopped into the Great Hall for breakfast one day when Hodge magically bound his legs together; he hadn’t perfected the General Counter-Spell to remove it on his own yet, which Peggy had begun teaching them as the incidents stacked up with more frequency. That was in their third week of school, and Professor May had pulled Steve aside before class that very same day. When Steve finally came in, his ears were pink not in anger, but humiliation.

“What’s up?” Bucky had whispered as Steve slammed his books down on their table.

Steve wasn’t in a talking mood, however, so Bucky didn’t get an answer as Professor May strolled in like nothing had happened and began the lesson. After class, once Steve had a chance to cool off a bit, he’d explained that Professor May wanted to talk to him about being bullied and asked who the culprit of that morning’s incident was.

“ _Please_ tell me you told her it was Hodge!” Bucky had groaned, already knowing Steve hadn’t before his stupid best friend fiercely shook his head.

“I’m not gonna let a teacher fight my battles for me.”

Which meant that _Bucky_ got to fight his battles for him every time he happened to be in the right place at the right time to see Hodge devising some new strategy to torture Steve, but he wasn’t about to just _say_ that.

By the beginning of October, Bucky had had enough.

He and T’Challa spent most of that Saturday in the library, Bucky researching the properties of porcupine quills and how a potion to cure boils would be impacted if they were added before or after being removed from heat for Erskine’s essay. It wasn’t until after he’d begun perusing ten different books at once that he spotted T’Challa across the library, poring over his own tome, and went to join him. T’Challa had already finished his Potions essay and consented to help Bucky while working ahead on an assignment that wasn’t due for another month to Professor Hill about the legitimacy of the Salem Witch Trials.

“You’re a real overachiever, T’Ch—uh, _Luke_ ,” he joked, catching his slip up at the last minute as a group of Ravenclaws browsed through the stacks nearby. T’Challa smirked, but it was obvious he was still displeased with the name and probably always would be.

“I have big shoes to fill.”

“So do I, but I’ve got enough to do.”

T’Challa raised an eyebrow and stared at him flatly. “We have all the same classes. What could you possibly have to do that I don’t?”

Sighing, Bucky mumbled, “Yeah, whatever, just help me find another quote, huh?”

Chuckling at Bucky’s irritation, T’Challa didn’t say anything else and pulled their Potions textbook closer, flipping through the pages while Bucky glanced over one of the encyclopedias he’d come across. They worked in companionable silence for a couple more hours and, although Bucky refused to admit it, he’d actually gotten ahead on some of his own work in that time and was glad for the break when they agreed it was time to get dinner.

Well, they fully _intended_ on getting dinner until Bucky glanced casually out of a window on the second floor to see Steve in the courtyard with Hodge, who had apparently gotten tired of magical means and was resorting to good old fashioned Muggle fighting.

“Dammit, Steve!” cursed Bucky, breaking into a run with T’Challa hot on his heels. They careened through the hallways, flew down the stairs, and Bucky nearly slipped on the floor in the entrance hall as he sprinted past the Great Hall and out the front door. The courtyard was practically empty at this time of day, most of the students inside getting dinner, but there were a few stragglers who watched the fight with mixed amusement and exasperation. By the time Bucky was close enough to see what was happening, Steve was getting the snot beat out of him. He hit the ground and Hodge, not exactly a fair fighter, still went in to punch him in the face.

With a shout of rage, Bucky launched himself onto Hodge’s back and tackled him to the ground. Hodge, who hadn’t seen him coming, hit the cobblestones hard and Bucky heard the air leave his lungs as the wind was knocked out of him. He didn’t give the Slytherin a moment to gather himself, though, just as he hadn’t deigned to give Steve one. No, Bucky instead pummeled every inch of him he could reach with his fists, vaguely aware that he was screaming profanities the whole time.

Hodge was bigger, but the surprise attack followed by the utter madness of Bucky’s outburst kept him from even trying to fight back, covering his face with his arms and yelling at him to stop. Or Bucky assumed that was what he was yelling—there was a noise like static in his ears and all he could hear clearly was the sound of his own heart beating in time with the rhythm of his flying fists. There was something tugging at the back of his robes, but he didn’t pay it any mind as he went absolutely out of his mind.

It seemed like time had stopped and Bucky was caught in a loop of perpetual violence until a sensation like a rope being tied around his waist jerked him upright. He immediately went flying, landing on the ground a few yards away from where Hodge lay, a bleeding, whimpering mess. Breathing hard, Bucky’s head turned this way and that as he tried to figure out what had happened, and his stomach jumped into his throat when he saw that half the teachers in the school were standing in the doorway to the entrance hall, Fury at the head of the group with his wand raised and a terrifying expression on his face.

That was the moment Bucky realized he had royally screwed up.

“That’s enough,” ordered Fury, his voice echoing oddly through the silent courtyard. His eye shot quickly between Hodge and Bucky, landing for a moment on Steve where T’Challa was helping him remain upright. “Mr. Charles, take Mr. Rogers to the hospital wing. Professor Phillips, if you’d escort Mr. Hodge.”

The professor in question, appearing incredibly agitated to be pulled away from his dinner to deal with a couple of idiot students, stomped forward and glared down at Hodge. “Get your ass up and let’s go.”

Hodge didn’t wait to be told twice, but Bucky noticed with some level of vicious satisfaction that it took him a few tries to get his feet underneath him. There was a steady stream of blood pouring out of his nose and oozing from a cut in his forehead, and Bucky could see where some pretty gruesome bruises were already beginning to form on his arms where most of Bucky’s blows had fallen. He followed Phillips inside the castle without so much as glancing in Bucky’s direction under Fury’s watchful eye, T’Challa bringing up the rear with Steve a moment later.

When Steve didn’t look at him either, Bucky knew he was probably in worse trouble than even Fury could mete out.

“Get up and follow me, Barnes.”

Fury waited while Bucky staggered to his feet before leading the way into the castle and up the stairs. Since she was Deputy Headmistress, Professor May followed suit while the other teachers returned to the Great Hall, and the three walked in silence up to the third floor. Bucky kept his eyes firmly locked on the ground the whole way, his brain in overdrive as he wondered what punishment could possibly await him wherever they were going. Would he be expelled? No, this wasn’t bad enough for that, but he would definitely get more than just detention. Could they ground him? Did they lock people up here? He knew there were dungeons, although he’d never gone exploring to see what they were like; he just knew that the Slytherins lived down there, but maybe there were cells where they kept kids who hurt other people like he just did. But he hadn’t used magic—would that make things better or worse for him?

_And what’ll happen when mom finds out?_

Bucky was so lost in thoughts of the impending doom he faced that he nearly bumped into Fury when the headmaster came to a sudden halt in front of a gargoyle statue at the far end of the third floor corridor that Bucky hadn’t noticed before.

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” deadpanned Fury, sighing as the gargoyle began to move aside, a spiral stone staircase emerging from the floor underneath it. “Melinda, remind me to tell Howard the pirate jokes ceased to be funny ten years ago.”

Professor May smirked for the first time that Bucky had ever seen. “He’ll probably come up with something worse.”

Grunting noncommittally, Fury stepped forward onto the staircase as soon as it stopped moving, leaving Bucky and Professor May to ascend behind him.

At the top of the staircase, there was a heavy wooden door that Fury pushed open to reveal what Bucky belatedly realized was his office. There were tables and shelves filled with magical gadgets doing Bucky could only imagine what, some appearing far more menacing than others; right beside the Sorting Hat was a device that looked like it could be used to torture someone into submission. Portraits of past headmasters lined the walls, some of whom were asleep while others gazed down at him curiously where he stood just inside the door. A fire burned brightly to his left, but Bucky still couldn’t help feeling cold as Fury reached his desk and swung around to face him, his face oddly impassive.

“Sit,” he barked, nodding to the chair before his desk and folding his arms.

Swallowing nervously, Bucky inched forward and tentatively lowered himself into the wooden chair, wedging his bruised and bloodied hands between his knees and staring down at the floor like it could save him from the mess he’d gotten himself into. Fury didn’t speak for a long time, long enough that Bucky began to wonder if he was supposed to be doing something—apologizing? Explaining? He was too afraid to talk and wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the words out even if he tried, so he kept his mouth shut and continued his intimate examination of the floor.

Eventually, long after Professor May had shut the door behind them and retreated to the shadows in the corner of the office, Fury blew out a breath.

“What the hell happened out there?” he inquired, sounding astonishingly less harsh than Bucky was expecting. It took a moment for him to get his vocal chords working to respond.

“H-he was beating up on Steve,” Bucky eventually managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Fury heard it nonetheless.

“Hodge?”

Bucky nodded. “Yessir.”

Fury took a deep breath and leaned back on his desk; Bucky saw his shadow change angles on the floor. “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time?”

“No, sir.”

“How long?”

“Few weeks. Usually he uses magic, but…”

There was silence for a minute, then, “Look me in the eye, Barnes.”

It was an odd expression, one that Bucky probably would have laughed at any other time given the fact that Fury only had the one eye to begin with, however Bucky felt nothing but trepidation as he obeyed. Fury wasn’t glaring at him anymore, but his eyebrow was drawn in toward where his other was hidden by the eye patch.

“Professor May has had her suspicions, so why haven’t you or Rogers said anything?”

_Because my best friend is the most stubborn, dumbest moron in the world?_ he absolutely didn’t say. Instead he settled on, “Steve didn’t want anyone to know. He… He thought he could handle it on his own.”

Fury inclined his head. “Not really on his own if he’s got you stepping in.”

“Steve’s not strong!” he blurted out suddenly, feeling the burn of tears in his eyes and determined not to let them fall. “He thinks he can do everything, but he _can’t_! I keep telling him he’s gonna get hurt, even when we were little I told him that, but he won’t listen and then people like Hodge get all pissed off ‘cause Steve’ll tell ‘em what’s what and then it just starts a fight that he _can’t win_ and I can’t just let him do it alone!”

By the time he finished, he was breathing nearly as heavily as he had been after beating the crap out of Hodge, furiously wiping away a tear that had managed to make it past his eyelid. Fury had said nothing all the while, letting him talk himself into silence as he got it all off his chest. It felt better. He’d told Sam and Clint, of course, and T’Challa let him talk about this sort of thing every day, but there was nothing they could _do_ about it! It wasn’t like it had been before where he could tell Sarah or his parents about what had happened and trust that they would take care of Steve and make sure he was okay. The relief of having everything out in the open and making the one person who was most capable of helping them at Hogwarts aware of the situation lifted a weight off his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying around.

_Too bad Steve’s gonna kill me,_ he thought, but it wasn’t enough to make him regret his decision.

Fury waited until he’d managed to calm himself down before he said anything else, but when he did speak, there was something in his tone that Bucky couldn’t quite fathom.

“Fighting isn’t tolerated at Hogwarts, Barnes, as I’m sure your mother probably told you before you even got your letter.” Bucky cringed and nodded, so Fury continued, “Whatever your reasons may be, if there’s a problem, you get a teacher. I don’t want to see more vigilante justice, got it?”

Sniffling, Bucky nodded again. “Yessir.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to be having a chat with Mr. Hodge. Professor May will take you to the hospital wing to get those hands looked at. A word of advice: if you’re going to beat the ever loving shit out of someone, keep your fist straight and don’t tuck your thumbs in.”

Frowning, Bucky raised his eyes from where they’d fallen to the floor again to watch Fury with amazement as the headmaster smirked slightly. He suddenly thought he knew what he’d heard in Fury’s voice: pride.

“Go on.”

Bucky nodded mutely, hauling himself out of the chair and going to the door with Professor May.

“Oh, and Barnes.” When Bucky paused, turning back to look at him, Fury inclined his head and dropped the smirk. “You’ll report to your Head of House, Professor Coulson, for detention after classes every night next week.”

Well, Bucky knew he wasn’t going to get off _completely_ scot-free, but it wasn’t too bad.

“And I’ll be writing home to your parents tonight.”

Strike that: he was going to be dead within the next twenty-four hours.

“Yessir.”

Fury nodded once and turned to move behind his desk without another word. May opened the office door, stepping aside to let Bucky out.

They moved through the corridors in silence and didn’t come across anyone, student or teacher. Dinner must have long since ended by now, but Bucky had lost his appetite and wasn’t sure he would be getting it back anytime soon. He simply felt numb as he followed May through the school and into the hospital wing, where Madam Bishop was tending to Hodge’s bruises with some kind of salve Bucky recognized from Sarah’s first aid kit. Steve was on the other side of the infirmary, T’Challa and Sam sitting on the bed beside his and talking in low voices; Bucky assumed his injuries had already been seen to.

Professor May directed Bucky to pick a bed, her expression softer than he’d ever seen it in class, before barking at Hodge to follow her to see the headmaster. The two left the hospital wing as soon as Madam Bishop finished applying the salve and moved on to Bucky, who took the unoccupied bed on Steve’s other side.

“Wow,” Madam Bishop hummed, taking his hands and examining the split knuckles. “Never really learned how to throw a punch, huh?”

Bucky just shrugged, not quite sure what the right answer to that question would be, and Madam Bishop shrugged as she pulled another salve out of a cabinet nearby. Bucky expected it to sting going on, but it was surprisingly cool and immediately made the joints less sore to the point where he could actually move them. The cuts closed up fairly quickly, yet the skin was still red and raw, so she wrapped his hands in a thin layer of bandages and warned him to take it easy for the next couple of days. (And not to introduce his fists to anyone else’s face, but he figured that was probably a given anyway.)

Once she was finished with him, Madam Bishop gave Steve a quick look and declared he should be fine but to avoid straining his arm, which he had apparently fallen on when Hodge knocked him down. Steve didn’t say anything in response, his primary form of communication devolving into grunts the way it always did when he was fuming about something. His silence continued as the four of them left the hospital wing and reached the staircase, Steve automatically turning to ascend while Bucky, Sam, and T’Challa would be heading downstairs. Bucky’s chest hurt to see that Steve wasn’t even going to say anything to him, so he stopped on the steps before any of them could get very far.

“Steve—“ he began, only to be immediately silenced with a look.

“Don’t.”

“But—“

“I didn’t need your help!” shouted Steve, and if Bucky didn’t know him as well as he did, he would have missed the shame that flashed through his eyes along with the anger. Unfortunately, Bucky didn’t have the patience to deal with Steve’s attempt at machismo.

“You didn’t?” he snarled instead, stepping right up into Steve’s face. “Yeah, looked like you were doing _just fine_ getting the shit kicked outta you all on your own.”

“Guys, maybe this isn’t the best time…” Sam tried to step between them, but Bucky and Steve didn’t acknowledge his existence. Years upon years of battles were about to explode, and Bucky knew there was nothing they could do to stop it now that it had begun.

“You can’t always fight my battles for me, Buck.”

“Well, who else is going to?”

“Me!”

“You’d’ve gotten yourself snapped in half by now if I didn’t help you—“

“And that’s what everyone’s gonna think until you drop it!” Steve shoved him in the chest; it was too weak to do much but Bucky took a step back regardless, stunned. Steve didn’t give him a chance to get a word in, though, pushing forward with all the subtlety of a steamroller. “You think you’re doing me a favor? _Hodge_ thinks I can’t handle myself without you around. _Everyone_ thinks it. They’ll never let up until you back the hell off!”

“That’s what you think?” breathed Bucky, shaking his head at Steve’s supposed logic.

“That’s what I _know_ ,” Steve corrected him, folding his arms and failing to hide his wince at the pain it caused him.

“Then I guess you don’t need me around, huh?”

Steve blinked, uncertainly opening and closing his mouth a few times before the steely glint returned to his eyes and the tenacity of his own stubbornness hit full force. “No, I don’t.”

It was like a sucker punch to the gut, but Bucky just bit the inside of his lip and nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay. Fine. _Fine_.”

He moved a few steps down, watching Steve’s expression fall a little in spite of his anger. Bucky couldn’t stay here and talk about this anymore; he didn’t want to have this discussion in front of Sam or T’Challa, didn’t want to have this discussion _at all_.

So he turned and made his way down the stairs alone, entering the Hufflepuff common room a few minutes later in a daze. Everyone else was lounging around enjoying their Saturday night while he was consumed by the misery of thinking his best friend might not be his best friend anymore. He ignored the invitation to join Clint and Darcy’s game of Exploding Snap and made a beeline for their dormitory instead.

Winter was grooming herself in the middle of his quilt, but she looked up at him with her big round eyes when she heard the door shut, mewing as she abandoned her task to hop down and approach him. He let her rub up against his ankles for a moment before he gathered her up in his arms and collapsed on his bed, allowing himself to cry into her fur over his sore hands and his broken friendship while he still had a little bit of privacy.

 

***

 

The next morning, Bucky got a tin of cookies in the post.

And also a Howler.

He knew it by the color and sprinted out of the Great Hall as fast as his legs could carry him, drawing stares and giggles from the other students. The envelope had begun smoking in his hand by the time he ducked into the corridor leading to the common room and slammed the door shut behind him, and he opened it with a sigh, knowing he’d never make it back to his dormitory. This was as private as he was going to get, but at least it was better than half the school hearing. The moment the seal split, his mother’s shrill voice bounced around the stone walls:

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?! ATTACKING ANOTHER STUDENT?! I DON’T CARE WHO YOU WERE TRYING TO HELP—YOU COULD’VE BEEN DEFENDING THE DAMN MINISTER FOR ALL I CARE—BUT HOW _DARE_ YOU RAISE YOUR FISTS TO ANOTHER STUDENT! THAT’S WHAT YOUR TEACHERS ARE _THERE FOR_! YOU’RE LUCKY PROFESSOR FURY IS UNDERSTANDING. MOST OTHER HEADMASTERS WOULD HAVE SENT YOU STRAIGHT HOME FASTER THAN YOU COULD SAY ‘EXPULSION!’ I DON’T WANT TO GET ONE MORE LETTER ABOUT YOUR BEHAVIOR, DO YOU HEAR ME? GET YOURSELF IN LINE OR, SO HELP ME, I WILL WALK RIGHT INTO THAT SCHOOL AND DRAG YOU OUT MYSELF!”

There was silence for a moment, her voice still echoing through Bucky’s head and the corridor, but the Howler didn’t immediately destroy itself. Then, a few seconds later, the envelope floated closer to his face and his father’s voice whispered, “Good for you, though, teaching that little shit a lesson. Proud of you, son.”

“George!”

Bucky couldn’t help chuckling nervously as the Howler gave a quick shake and then tore itself in half, fluttering to the ground and bursting into flames until there was nothing left. _At least Dad gets it,_ Bucky thought, leaning back against the door to the entrance hall. He felt like he was eight years old again and was being yelled at for using magic on Muggles. He’d thought that was bad enough, but now he was getting chewed out for using Muggle fighting techniques on wizards—he just couldn’t win.

Once he’d composed himself in the wake of his mother’s tirade, Bucky slunk back into the Great Hall, keeping his eyes on the floor as he made his way over to where he’d been sitting with Sam and T’Challa at the Hufflepuff table before the unexpected yet totally unsurprising interruption. Steve had surrounded himself at the Gryffindor table with Thor and Daniel Sousa, and it appeared that Peggy had gone to join them while Bucky was outside; he didn’t spare one glance for Bucky the whole time, even when the jeers of their classmates welcomed him back.

_Great. Steve’s mad at me, Ma’s mad at me, and I’ve got detention all week. Should’ve just let the little punk take it._

It was an idle thought—he knew he would never be able to sit by and let Steve Rogers get the crap kicked out of him, but there was no denying that the fallout this time was far worse than ever before. (And that was counting the time he’d used magic on those Muggle bullies. The only difference now was that he wasn’t home for his mother to ground him.)

Bucky dropped into the seat next to T’Challa with a sigh, his eyes falling on the tin he’d gotten just before the Howler arrived. Frowning, he popped open the top and groaned, smelling his favorite Sarah Rogers peanut butter cookies inside. Sam and T’Challa leaned in to take a look while Bucky plucked an envelope out of the tin and tore it open, unfolding the letter that, thankfully, wasn’t about to ream him in front of half the student body and most of the teachers.

> _Bucky,_
> 
> _I got a letter from Professor Fury about what happened to you and Steve. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you shouldn’t be fighting and are supposed to get a teacher when things like this happen, but your own mother can handle that well enough without you getting it from me, too. I’ll be talking to Steve about this as well. It isn’t fair to you to get in trouble for helping when he refuses to go to the teachers._
> 
> _Your mom said she sent a Howler, so here’s something to ease the sting. I don’t condone fighting—you know that—but I don’t think anyone’s too upset you took that punk kid to the cleaners either. (Don’t tell your mother I said that.)_
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Sarah_

Grinning, Bucky set the letter aside and grabbed a cookie, immediately feeling better as the flavor invaded his senses. Sarah had made these cookies forever, and they always seemed to be at the ready when Bucky was in a particularly bad mood as a kid. Having them here was like having a little bit of home, even if it was the Brooklyn one.

“I’m guessing those aren’t from your parents,” inferred Sam with a smile. Although he refused to take sides in the argument between Steve and Bucky, he’d been at Bucky’s side all morning, and he was grateful for it.

Bucky shook his head and explained, “Steve’s mom.” Crumbs spattered the table in front of him and he covered his mouth as he finished chewing.

Snorting, Sam just shook his head while T’Challa inquired, “Thank you gift?”

“Kinda. Better than another Howler, anyway,” he grumbled, taking another bite of his cookie and covering the rest so he didn’t eat them all in one sitting. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder to see if Steve had received a tin of his own, but there was nothing sitting on the table that he could see. Any other day, he would have teased Steve for it and said his mom liked Bucky better, but that wasn’t exactly in the cards right now.

Sam had a knack for sensing what he was thinking without saying it, and Bucky turned back around to find a sympathetic smile on his face. “He’ll come around.”

“Yeah,” muttered Bucky without conviction. He avoided eye contact and occupied his hands with folding up Sarah’s letter carefully and stuffing it back in its envelope. Sam, however, wasn’t about to be ignored.

“Dude, you’ve been friends forever. He didn’t mean what he said.”

“Sure sounded like he meant it.”

“People say a lot of things they don’t mean when they’re mad,” T’Challa pointed out gently. “Everything will be fine in time.”

Bucky just nodded, not bothering to tell the two of them that he wasn’t sure, that he and Steve had fought before but _never_ like that. And the more he thought about it, it wasn’t exactly like Steve really needed him anymore anyway. When they were little, there were a couple of other kids at school who could sort of be considered friends, but mostly it was just the two of them. Now that they had settled in at Hogwarts, they’d made other friends aside from just each other. Peggy Carter more than anyone else could see Steve the same way Bucky did, unlike so many others who saw him as a weakling or a joke. Bucky knew she saw his strength just as well as he could, and that both of them worried about him for the very same reasons. Steve had other friends to turn to now; maybe he really _didn’t_ need Bucky hanging around.

The thought plagued him for the rest of the day and throughout Monday after Steve moved halfway across their classes to sit with Thor instead of Bucky and wouldn’t as much as glance in his general direction. They didn’t sit together at meals anymore; they didn’t hang out in the courtyard or on the school grounds as the warm weather began to wane and the sun was replaced with overcast skies. Bucky assumed Steve was spending most of his free time in the Gryffindor common room, and Bucky spent his with Professor Coulson in his office.

Coulson was a pretty nice guy and head of Hufflepuff house. He taught Muggle Studies, which Bucky found out they wouldn’t have an opportunity to take until they were in their third year, and was overwhelmingly enthusiastic about anything to do with Muggles. The first night of Bucky’s detention, Coulson had gone into great detail about why he taught it: he was a half-blood whose Muggle mother had died before he’d formed any lasting memories of her and was raised by his father. He’d been obsessed with his mother’s heritage and wanted to share it with the Wizarding world. In fact, one of the first things he’d said was how much he admired Bucky’s mom for what she was trying to achieve. He called it a _major milestone in wizard-Muggle relations_ and subtly blasted the critics who were saying Muggles were too dangerous to know about the Wizarding world. Although Bucky would have rather been anywhere besides detention, it was nice to hear how much his mom’s work meant to Professor Coulson and know that there _were_ people out there who felt the same way.

Bucky was also delighted to find that the detention itself was, for all intents and purposes, an absolute joke. He stowed his schoolbag in his dormitory and went to get dinner early every night before heading for Coulson’s office, where they basically just talked about the Muggle world and Coulson drilled him for information about how Muggles lived in the United States compared to England. Bucky helped him figure out how things like the internet and cell service worked since the textbooks were outdated enough that they really didn’t offer the most reliable information on modern Muggle technology (although the book was titled _Today’s Muggles – How the Other Side Lives_ ).

All things considered, Bucky figured he could have had it _so_ much worse.

 

***

 

By Thursday when Bucky returned to his dormitory, he was about Muggled out, but Coulson had given him enough time to work on his homework that he would have nothing to do that weekend. It would be a nice change, given that he’d had at least one assignment to complete every weekend since they started school, whether it was written or practicing spells. He was getting more comfortable with Transfiguration, and they’d moved on from buttons to transforming standard Muggle pencils into quills; Astronomy was still his favorite class, but the others were far more interesting now that they were in the thick of using magic, so he really couldn’t complain about much (except History of Magic, which was boring no matter what they were doing).

Steve still hadn’t spoken to him, but he wasn’t shooting him glares or any of the stuff he usually did when he was angry either. Instead he just ignored him entirely, which was almost worse somehow. Bucky spent most of his time with T’Challa, Sam, and Clint, who was sort of part of their circle but also sort of not. Clint was friendly when he wanted to be and entertainingly sarcastic, but he definitely preferred sleeping in or lounging around the grounds somewhere to hanging out. Bucky had caught him spending more and more time playing with Winter while he was in detention, but they’d come to a silent agreement not to discuss it the first time Bucky came back to find Clint dangling a feather over Winter’s head while she pawed at it, both of them hilariously freezing as though they’d been caught doing something wrong.

He’d come back to see the same thing just about every night this week, which was why he found it odd on Thursday to see Clint in the common room and his dormitory oddly cat-free.

Dropping his bag, he called for Winter and hunted around her usual haunts, even trying under the bed and in his trunk for good measure. When he concluded she was nowhere to be found in the room, he emerged and jogged into the common room to see Clint and Darcy engrossed in a game of wizard chess.

“Hey, where’s Winter?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, his heart beginning to pound a little harder in his chest.

Clint glanced up at him, frowning. “She wasn’t in our room. Thought you took her with you or something.”

“Uh, _no_ , I had detention.”

“Maybe she’s hiding?”

Bucky shook his head. “I already checked everywhere.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” inquired Clint, sounding far calmer than Bucky felt at that moment.

He racked his brains, running a hand anxiously through his hair. He’d come back before dinner to drop off his bag and feed Winter, who had been mewling wildly and literally hanging on him in a clear attempt to keep him from leaving again. His kitten had been less than enthusiastic about his absence over the last few days and seemed determined to get some of his attention, so he played with her for a few minutes before heading out to grab dinner and serve his detention.

“Maybe she slipped out behind you,” Darcy suggested before waving her bishop forward and crowing, “Ha, check _mate_ , bitch!”

Clint grumbled a little about cheating as he stood up and glanced back at Bucky, who could honestly say that he probably looked terrible given the fact that he was trying as hard as he could _not to freak the hell out_. Winter had grown quite a bit in the last few months, but she was still a kitten and could be _anywhere_ in the castle! Or, even worse, what if she had wandered out onto the grounds? She could have fallen into the lake, been made into dinner for a hawk or an owl, run into the Forbidden Forest—

“Man, _focus_ ,” Clint was almost yelling in his face, shaking his shoulders roughly to jar him away from the various ways Winter could have met her untimely demise currently spiraling through his head. “Let’s just go look for her, okay?”

Bucky nodded, weakly managing, “Okay,” in response before Clint practically dragged him out of the common room, Darcy following right behind them.

They only had an hour until curfew, but they used every second of it to scour as much of the castle as they could. Clint took charge of what he was calling their rescue operation, sending Darcy and Bucky to search each floor while he checked out the courtyard and by the Black Lake. They looked _everywhere_ —unlocked classrooms, boys’ _and_ girls’ lavatories (thank goodness Darcy was with him, or that would have been pretty awkward), inside suits of armor, behind statues—they even asked the paintings if they’d seen anything, all to no avail.

They’d managed to search two floors by the time they met up back at the common room, although Bucky had been considering staying out all night, consequences be damned. Sam, who had returned to their dormitory while they were gone, had been the voice of reason, reassuring him that Winter was most likely inside the castle somewhere and the doors wouldn’t be opened again until morning anyway. It didn’t really make Bucky feel any better, so Clint decided to play dirty and reminded him that his mom would probably not take kindly to hearing that Bucky was out past curfew so soon after the last mishap. Ultimately, that was the only thing that convinced him not to continue the search well into the evening, and his friends did what they could to cheer him up before admitting defeat and going to bed.

Bucky never really fell into more than a fitful doze and woke up more exhausted than the night before, the room filled with uncomfortable silence in the absence of Winter purring into his ear on the pillow beside him. There wasn’t even time to do any searching that morning; it was a Friday, which meant breakfast and then classes all day, plus his final detention that night.

Bucky silently dressed while Clint and Sam roused a few minutes later, his roommates trying to draw him into conversation halfheartedly and receiving just nods and shrugs for their trouble. They eventually figured out they weren’t going to get anything out of him and led the way to breakfast in silence, filling T’Challa in when they found him waiting for them outside the Great Hall.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I will help you look after our classes.”

“We all will,” chimed in Sam, and Bucky smiled a little. He couldn’t quite thank them since his voice wasn’t working, but they seemed to get it nonetheless and nodded encouragingly as they turned toward the Great Hall.

Before he could take two steps, though, Bucky felt someone tap his shoulder and turned around to see Steve standing right behind him holding—

“Winter! Holy shit…”

Bucky practically snatched the kitten from where Steve had been cradling her in his arms, and Winter meowed happily as he held her tight to his chest, tucking her head into his neck and purring like a motorboat. When he looked back up, Steve was smirking slightly, although his face was red and he was sniffling.

“Might wanna take better care of her, Buck,” Steve berated him without any heat, sounding congested.

“Where did you find her?” asked Bucky incredulously. “We were looking all night.”

Steve’s smirk turned into a grimace. “On my face this morning when I woke up.”

_That explains a lot._ Blinking, Bucky slowly nodded. “Yeah, she does that sometimes.”

“So I noticed.”

They fell silent, just staring at each other until a throat cleared awkwardly behind them. Sam muttered something about giving them a minute and then they were left alone, the other three going inside the Great Hall. Bucky and Steve didn’t say anything for a long time, Steve scuffing his foot against the flagstones and Bucky petting Winter’s back.

“Thanks,” Bucky finally murmured, not sure what else to say. Steve nodded.

“Sure.”

There was another uncomfortable silence before, unable to stand it anymore, Bucky sighed, “Steve—“

“Wait,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. It seemed to cost him something to put his thoughts into words, and after another minute Steve continued, “I’m sorry, Buck. I know you were trying to help, and…I probably couldn’t’ve taken him alone.”

_I know_ , Bucky very deliberately didn’t tell him. This was probably the first time Steve had apologized for anything to do with getting into a fight, so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I’m sorry too,” he apologized instead, making Steve frown.

“About what?”

“Saying you couldn’t take care of yourself… I just… Sometimes you _can’t_ , and I don’t want to find my best friend as a splat on the floor one day, y’know?”

Steve snickered softly and nodded, smiling self-deprecatingly up at him. “Yeah, I know. I can’t promise I’m not gonna stand up for myself, Buck…”

When he didn’t continue, Bucky finished, “But you’re gonna try to stop being a stubborn ass and let me help?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunted, but he was still smiling. “But I _could_ get by on my own. Just so you know.”

Shrugging, Bucky countered, “Thing is…you don’t _have_ to. I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”

Steve sighed, nodding at the floor for a second before meeting Bucky’s eyes, his smile smaller but far more grateful now. As they entered the Great Hall and took a seat together with their friends, Bucky letting Winter nibble happily at his bacon, he bumped Steve’s shoulder with his own and took a deep breath.

_Everything’s okay._


	7. Stark Raving Mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some happy times before the plot takes it up a notch! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

October bled away quickly and before Bucky knew it, it was Halloween. The castle had been decked out in all kinds of goofy and scary decorations, from the remarkably realistic cobwebs in the corners to the Muggle-like witch’s hats on every suit of armor in the corridors. When they went to breakfast that morning, the candles had been replaced by floating pumpkins, which they all assumed would turn into jack-o’-lanterns at the feast that night. Most of the teachers even got into the spirit: Professor Hill taught them about the magical significance of Halloween in History of Magic, they learned about zombies (or, as they were apparently called, Inferi) in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Stark taught them how to change the color of their hair to varying shades of orange and black in Charms.

Bucky had practically begged Steve to let him try the spell on his hair, _obviously_ because it would show up better on blond than brown, but Steve was impossibly reticent to allow it. They argued back and forth for a few minutes before Steve agreed—under the condition that they try it on Winter first. Bucky hadn’t bothered after that.

Of course, no Halloween would be complete without a few innocent pranks, and going to a Wizarding school meant there were no shortage of amazing ideas to choose from. T’Challa had told them at breakfast that one of the seventh years had run out of her room at the crack of dawn, screaming at the top of her lungs about thousands of spiders in her bed. Clint tried to pull a fast one by transfiguring one of Darcy’s scarves into a rat (Bucky didn’t want to know how he got hold of it), but the spell backfired and ended up blowing half their common room to smithereens instead. It was the first time Bucky had seen Professor Coulson so mad, and Clint had been given the gift of detention for the next two weeks.

“Worth it,” his fellow Hufflepuff sighed contentedly when he found a slightly charred yet somehow whole rat skittering around on the floor after what he termed the volcanic eruption of Mount Coulson.

“You’re not keeping that in our room,” warned Sam.

Bucky grimaced and agreed, “Winter would probably kill it before Darcy ever saw it anyway.”

Clint groaned dramatically, holding the rodent close to his chest and bemoaning, “See? Told you cats suck, man! If you had a dog, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“If I had a dog, it wouldn’t be allowed here,” Bucky explained with deliberate patience. This was an argument they had at least once a week, twice depending on just how much of Clint’s parchment Winter clawed her way through. Bucky’s was always in pristine condition, and Clint swore it was a conspiracy against him; Bucky figured it was just deserts for some of the comments he made about the kitten and chalked it up to karma.

“Exactly: problem solved.”

“Hang on, I think we’re forgetting something here,” interjected Sam, narrowing his eyes at the rat where it was squirming against Clint’s chest. “I heard you don’t learn that kind of spell until, like, sixth or seventh year.”

_That’s…a really good point._ Clint still had trouble with getting the simplest spells not to literally blow up in his face—how had he managed such complicated magic even _with_ the spontaneous combustion?

Clint, unfazed by the silent question, shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a first year to do advanced Transfiguration. “Ravenclaws aren’t the only ones who know how to use a library, guys.”

At that moment, Bucky’s respect for (and fear of) Clint Barton grew exponentially. So did his doubts that the explosions were as accidental as they seemed.

The rat disappeared shortly afterward, and Bucky double and triple checked to make sure it was nowhere to be found in their dormitory before the three Hufflepuffs made their way to the Great Hall for the feast. Since it was a special occasion, they had to sit with the rest of their house and chose a spot near where T’Challa was seated at the Slytherin table. The Gryffindors were on the other side of the Slytherins, and Steve and Thor gave them a quick wave before continuing whatever conversation they’d been having. Steve’s brow was furrowed and he was waving his hands around as he spoke, so it was probably something Bucky really didn’t want to hear by the looks of things. Thor was giving as good as he got, though, so that was something.

A few minutes after they arrived, Peggy joined the Slytherin table near T’Challa so they could keep the group as close as possible. Oddly enough, she was followed by Steve’s absolute _favorite_ person, who didn’t ordinarily join them.

“Aw, we’re sitting at the kiddie table!” Tony Stark exclaimed, clapping his hands once. “How exciting.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and asked, “You _do_ know you’re only a year older than us, right?”

Tony barked a laugh, laying a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Remember this day, first year—we’re gonna talk about it when you’re a world-weary second year, aged and matured like fine wine.”

“Does he always talk like this?” Sam inquired of Peggy, leaning back to frown at her behind Tony.

“Always,” she confirmed with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “There’s nothing to be done for it, really. You learn to live with his idiocy.”

A Gryffindor boy Bucky had seen in the corridors, oftentimes with Stark in spite of how much the latter appeared to annoy him every time, approached the group in time to hear Peggy’s assertion and shrugged. “Eventually you start finding it kinda entertaining in a really sad sorta way.”

“Which is clearly a sign that you’ve been hanging out with him way too long, Rhodey,” snorted Angie as she plopped herself down to Bucky’s right. She’d taken to Darcy instantly upon meeting, and the two had become nearly inseparable when they weren’t in classes despite their difference in years. As a result, Bucky had spent plenty of evenings listening to the two discussing everything from professors (useful) to boys (gross) and considered Angie a friend even if she still refused to use his name.

Tony frowned at her, his disapproval somehow just as flamboyant as his excitement could be. It was kind of impressive. “Of the two of us, Martinelli, which one is (a) flunking History of Magic and (b) beyond underfunded?”

“So you’re rich,” deadpanned Angie, twirling a finger in the air. “Whoop-de-do.”

“Just enough to afford a personality.”

_Better watch it or she’ll clock you in front of everybody here._

From the expressions Sam and Clint were leveling at Tony, they completely agreed with him.

Steve, who had made his way over from the Gryffindor table, crossed his arms and muttered, “Wonder how that personality will feel when she shoves it up your ass.”

“Oh, Papa Smurf, there you are!” exclaimed Tony, sidestepping the rest of the conversation and ignoring the way Steve’s expression completely shut down.

“Excuse me?” His tone had gone from exasperated to _Don’t Mess With Me, Asshole_ in no seconds flat. That was Bucky’s cue to intervene.

“Ignore him, Steve. He was just gonna go have a seat and count his allowance.”

Tony made a show of being shocked, whipping around to stare down at Bucky with wide eyes. “Barnes, you _wound_ me. Here I was, just innocently minding my own business and trying to tell my _closest friends_ about the plans for this evening, and honestly, I’m just feeling so attacked right now.”

“What plans?” inquired Rhodey, his eyes narrowed suspiciously now. Tony simply shook his head with a sad expression on his face.

“No, no. I can tell when my presence isn’t wanted. I’ll just do what Buckaroo over here said an—“

“Stark, cut the crap,” interrupted Clint. He was reaching the time of the evening where he was hungry and willing to tear off anyone’s head until he got food, so Tony was officially treading on thin ice. “What plans?”

Tony shrugged, his shoulders reaching his ears in obvious sarcasm. “Just a little Halloween fun. Best holiday of the year, after all.” He tossed what looked like a marble in the air once and caught it with a flourish. “Enjoy the feast, kiddies,” he called as he whirled on his heel and moved down to the middle of the Slytherin table.

They watched him go in silence before Peggy turned to survey Rhodey with pursed lips. “Tell me you’re going to do something about _whatever it is_ he has planned, James.”

The name clicked in Bucky’s head as he made the connection— _James Rhodes, one of the Gryffindor Chasers._

“You think I have _any_ control over him?” Rhodey scoffed with a disbelieving huff. “You’re funny, Pegs.”

Angie snorted, twirling her fork idly as she shot him a curious look. “I’m still trying to figure out how you can stand being around him so much.”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.”

The rest of them chuckled, but the conversation was brought to an end by the sound of a glass tinkling at the High Table. Rhodey and Steve retreated to their own table, everyone else in the Great Hall doing the same before turning to see the teachers all present and accounted for. Fury cut a menacing figure appropriate for the holiday, but given that that was how he looked every day, no one seemed very surprised. He started giving some kind of address, but Clint chose that moment to lean across the table toward Bucky and Sam.

“Wanna place bets on if Stark gets expelled tonight?”

Bucky shook his head dubiously. “His dad works here. He’s not gonna get expelled and he knows it.”

“Five Galleons says he ends up cleaning out the Owlery,” suggested Sam.

“Deal,” Clint and Bucky agreed simultaneously. Personally, Bucky figured he’d get off light with detention or even somehow talk his way out of whatever punishment they came up with altogether, but the mental image of Tony scraping owl droppings off the Owlery floor was admittedly satisfying.

They were jarred out of their exchange by the unexpected appearance of food spread out before them and realized Fury must already have finished his speech. Clint dove right in, but Bucky took a moment to survey the selection beforehand just to be safe—it _was_ Halloween and Tony Stark _was_ planning something, after all. Everything looked fairly normal, he was grateful to observe. There were jugs of apple cider and pumpkin juice, platters of hot dogs wrapped in dough that were shaped like human fingers, broccoli salad being “vomited” out of a jack-o’-lantern’s gaping mouth, leaning stacks of pumpkin pancakes and waffles, and steak tips leaking fake blood (he _hoped_ it was fake, anyway). Bucky spared a quick glance over his shoulder at Tony, who was absorbed in his food and conversing with Rhodey where the latter sat at the Gryffindor table behind him, and shrugged. At least if he ended up sick all night, he knew who to hunt down.

Sam seemed just as reluctant, but their hunger won out and they loaded their plates with a little bit of everything, hardly thinking about saving room for dessert. Clint was never much for conversation when there was food to be eaten, so they listened to Angie and Darcy chatting about Muggle Halloween traditions further down the table while they devoured their meals. Bucky could see Sam peeking over at the Slytherin table to check on Tony every few minutes, and he rolled his eyes when Bucky laughed at him.

Despite their reservations, however, dinner was uneventful and they made it almost all the way through dessert without incident as well. Bucky was starting to feel unpleasantly full (he probably shouldn’t have had that last slice of pumpkin pie, but it looked _so good_ ), and even Clint was leaning back in his set and staring at his plate like it had insulted him. He tended to get that way when he wasn’t hungry anymore but there was still food on his plate; Bucky had spotted a mini stockpile of leftovers in Clint’s wardrobe that he probably couldn’t bring himself to leave behind on numerous occasions. He’d wondered more than once at the fact that the food never seemed to spoil, but he figured if the food had been prepared magically it was pretty likely that there was a spell keeping it from going bad. That or, given Clint’s apparent wealth of magical ability demonstrated earlier, he may very well have cast a Cooling Spell to keep his wardrobe down to fridge temperatures. Bucky made a mental note to ask him.

It wasn’t until the very end of the feast, a few minutes before the food would disappear and Fury would order them all to bed, that it happened.

There was a loud screeching sound, and the hundreds of jack-o’-lanterns floating above them blew out at the same time. Screams echoed throughout the Great Hall as they were left in nearly absolute darkness, the only light coming from the moon outside the windows behind the High Table. One by one, the teachers began to light their wands, and Fury was calling for everyone not to panic—but his words were cut off by another screech, this time louder and steadier than the first. Purple flames erupted inside the jack-o’-lanterns and, not a second later, what looked like thousands of bats descended from the rafters in a frenzied dash.

More screams erupted and Bucky heard Sam shout beside him, “What the _hell_?!”

“Get down!” he called over the noise, grabbing Sam by the sleeve and yanking him underneath the table. They watched through the gap as most of the students waved madly at the creatures, trying to duck out of their path only to get in another’s way.

Steve had clearly had the same idea as Bucky, and they spotted each other through the legs of the Slytherins in between their tables. It wasn’t really necessary, but Steve rolled his eyes and mouthed, “ _Stark_ ,” just before a student moved and hid him from view.

_Of course it’s Tony, that idiot._

Bucky tried to spot the moron in question when Sam cursed next to him, and his concentration was indefinitely suspended as he caught sight of the hundreds of spiders sweeping across the floor around their feet.

“Aw, shit.”

They both scrambled out from underneath the table, frantically brushing off their robes to make sure none of the insects had gotten on them. Oddly enough, there was nothing there even though the spiders had _literally_ been crawling all over their feet a second ago. They exchanged an almost identical confused glance before they were knocked aside by students rushing for the doors, which slammed closed with an ominous _bang_ before they could make it that far.

There was screaming.

There was sobbing.

There were murderous glares among those of them who knew _exactly_ who was behind this madness. In the back of Bucky’s mind, he had the vague impression that this was all a pretty cool illusion—and it _had_ to be an illusion. It was the only explanation he could think of for why the spiders weren’t crawling all over them and the bats hadn’t attacked the food still laying abandoned on the house tables. It was scary, sure, but it _wasn’t real_. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

The teachers were moving about the Great Hall, trying to calm the panicking students, until only Fury was left at the High Table examining the situation with a grim expression. At that moment, the bats that had been whirling in circles above them abruptly changed direction and flew right at him. He didn’t bat an eye as they darted straight past and out the windows, which shattered in a deafening crash.

At least it looked like they did. When Bucky squinted, he could still see the glass right where it was supposed to be.

The lights flickered back to life, and the spiders vanished like the shadows they were. The students stopped running around, many breathing heavily and covered head to toe in sweat, tears, and food that had gone flying in their terror. The sight was pretty hilarious, but it wasn’t the best part.

The best part was that Professor Fury’s robes had gone from black to neon orange, glittering where the fake glass had rained down on him, and his eye patch had a bedazzled smiley face wearing a witch’s hat in the middle.

“Oh my God,” Sam breathed, shaking his head incredulously. “Forget the Owlery—he’s _dead_.”

There was utter silence in the Great Hall; even the teachers were gaping at the sight, a few clearly struggling not to laugh.

Fury’s expression hadn’t changed. The man was like a statue at the head of the room, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he was amused or about to go nuclear. He caught Steve’s wide eyes on the other side of the Slytherin table and saw Sam’s thoughts echoed in his expression before turning back to their headmaster.

“I think,” Fury finally drawled after another minute, brushing the glitter off his sleeves with deliberately calm motions, “this would probably be a good time for everyone to get the hell into bed.”

They didn’t make him repeat himself. The tense atmosphere was broken by hundreds of footsteps as students shoved each other to get out first, although they all stopped and turned back when the headmaster added, “And Mr. Stark?”

Bucky watched as Tony froze _just_ inside the doors in front of him. _He almost made it._

Visibly steeling himself, Tony spun around with an entirely innocent expression as Fury announced, “My office, first thing in the morning.”

“You got it, sir,” replied Tony with a sharp salute as the sea of bodies commenced pushing him out into the entrance hall. Most of the students cleared out pretty quick in a mad dash for their common rooms, but the girl from the train, Pepper, grabbed Tony by the back of his robes and spun him around before he could make it to the stairs.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she hissed at him, hands on her hips. When Bucky and Steve had met her, she’d been annoyed but tolerant of Tony’s antics, but it appeared that he’d gone too far this time. She looked absolutely furious, and Bucky couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with the bits of raspberry tart mashed into her hair.

Tony rolled his eyes, but it was more timid than he seemed to realize. “C’mon, Pep, it was just a demonstration.”

“A demonstration,” she repeated flatly, eyes flashing. Bucky, Steve, Sam, Clint, and T’Challa hovered to the side to watch. Bucky considered placing another bet about how long Pepper lasted before she decked him.

“A demonstration of the latest and greatest in my new line of magical appliances.” He held up the marble from earlier. “A pocket-sized device that creates realistic illusory experiences suitable for any occasion. Want your kids to think Santa’s on his way? Activate this, and his sleigh is right outside the window. Don’t feel like going to crowded firework displays? Make your own anytime you want—completely legally, I might add.”

Rhodey came up on Bucky’s left and muttered a quick, “Dude’s insane,” before stepping forward into the conversation. “You can cut the commercial.”

“Oh, come on, Rhodey, it’s my best pitch yet!” Tony suddenly looked past his incensed friends’ shoulders right at their little group of spectators and exclaimed wordlessly. “You guys were impressed, right? See? They’re totally impressed,” he argued without waiting for an actual answer.

“They’re not impressed, Tony.”

“I mean, I’m kinda impressed,” Clint began with a shrug, but Pepper immediately cut him off.

“Someone could have gotten _hurt_ , Tony.”

“So I’ll work on the timing of the next demonstration—no muss, no fuss,” he tried consoling her. “You can’t tell me the _idea_ isn’t a good one.”

Pepper said nothing, glaring down at him for a minute before turning on her heel and stomping up the stairs. Rhodey just sighed, leveling him with a look of disapproval before following suit. As soon as they were out of earshot, Clint was practically jumping forward like a puppy.

“So, how does the illusion thingy work?”

“Clint!” Bucky and Sam groaned in tandem. They each grabbed one of his arms and nodded a quick goodnight to T’Challa and Steve before dragging him down towards their common room.

“Hey, before you go,” called Tony. “Dynamic duo.”

Bucky reluctantly stopped and turned back to see Tony pointing between him and Steve with a smug expression on his face. “What?”

Tony’s smirk widened. “Just thought you might be interested to know that one Gilmore Hodge had the _unfortunate_ experience of wetting himself in front of the entire school. Good for the experiment—might need to tone down some of the sound effects—but bad for the dignity, y’know?”

He didn’t wait for them to say anything in return, strutting down the stairs toward the dungeons and leaving them all staring openmouthed after him.

After a minute of stunned silence, Steve glanced around at the rest of them and shrugged. “Wonder how much that’ll cost.”

They snorted in laughter and bid each other goodnight. Even though Darcy proclaimed her gratitude to Clint for her _new pet rat_ and left him grunting about weird girls for the next hour until they went to bed, Bucky couldn’t help thinking this had been one of the best Halloweens he’d ever had.

He didn’t even mind dishing out five Galleons to Sam the next day.

 

***

 

> _The atmosphere at the Ministry of Magic last night was explosive as the Minister took the stage to address the progress made regarding passage of the controversial Barnes Initiative. The details of the bill have been murky over the last few months, but Minister Stern was eager to set the record straight first and foremost._
> 
> _“This Ministry, as well as the governing bodies of many other European Wizarding communities, has worked alongside Muggle authorities for decades, sometimes unbeknownst to the Muggles themselves. I myself meet with the Muggle Prime Minister frequently to determine the long-term needs of Muggle and magical communities throughout the United Kingdom, and we take measures appropriate for our own people respectively. The Barnes Initiative seeks to keep the same level of awareness while raising the amount of cooperation. It does not mean an open unveiling of our society to Muggles, nor does it imply that such a thing will become feasible in the future. All it does is seek to strengthen ties we’ve already made for a more beneficial, symbiotic relationship.”_
> 
> _In a recent poll by Ministry officials seeking public opinion on the matter, 76% of respondents claimed that they would be in favor of the Barnes Initiative with 49% of these saying they would actually be agreeable to eventually merging Wizarding and Muggle communities._
> 
> _A member of this group in Bristol, who prefers to remain anonymous, had this to say: “Muggles and our kind have been separated longer than anyone can remember, but no one really knows why. There are plenty of Muggles who marry into Wizarding families—my own husband was always accepting and curious about our world. I think we underestimate just how much we and the Muggles have in common.”_
> 
> _On the other side of the argument, many anti-Initiative demonstrators have cited the safety of the Wizarding community as a prime reason against agreeing to closer cooperation. A protester at the Ministry during the Minister’s address claimed, “We’re not like them. Muggles have no idea what our world is and they never will. They’ll see us as freaks. How many crimes and problems are going to be blamed on magic when they’re too lazy to look for real answers? It’s just a bad idea.”_
> 
> _Anti-Initiative protesters have taken up residence in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, where the Minister has allowed the peaceful demonstration so long as they remain within cordoned-off boundaries. The demonstrators say they will camp out there for as long as it takes before the Minister makes his final decision about the bill on the 29 th of December._

“It sounds like they don’t have much confidence in Muggles, do they?” mused T’Challa before taking a bite of his eggs and shaking his head. “Your mother’s bill could change the world.”

“Yeah, if people weren’t too dumb to see it,” sighed Bucky. They had decided to get an early start in the library on their Astronomy essay—ten inches on why the moons orbiting a planet could be just as relevant as the planet itself—even though Bucky had grumbled profusely when he realized it meant waking up at a ridiculous hour on a Saturday. Everyone else appeared to be of the same mind, which meant they were just about the only people in the Great Hall.

T’Challa shook his head with a pensive frown on his face. “It’s not that they’re not smart enough. They are blinded by their hatred and bigotry and try to find monsters where none exist.”

“What’s the big deal?” blurted Bucky with a disdainful glower at his copy of the _Daily Prophet_. “My dad’s a Muggle, and he’s the best.”

“My father says it is the curse of mankind to believe that two different things cannot be equal—one _must_ be better than another.”

Bucky sullenly poked at his pancakes with a humorless chuckle. “Your dad sounds pretty smart.”

“He is,” admitted T’Challa, smiling dryly. “Most days.”

They laughed lightly and finished their breakfast before retiring to the library to work on their assignment. Bucky stuffed the newspaper into his schoolbag carelessly before they left, blaming it for his bad mood instead of the little seed of homesickness he’d felt since Thanksgiving the previous week. Despite the fact that a significant number of students at Hogwarts were Americans who had been granted waivers, there was no feast for Thanksgiving. Sure, they’d had turkey and stuffing and all the usual holiday fixings that night at dinner, but it just wasn’t the same. He and Steve were used to watching the Macy’s parade and then playing video games until dinner, when their combined families devoured a veritable feast before settling in front of the television to watch Muggle Christmas movies. Even when Bucky’s family moved to London, they’d still had Thanksgivings together with Steve and Sarah. This was the first year they were away from home for it, and Bucky had been feeling the loss for three days since. If Steve’s more frequent silences were anything to go by, he felt the same.

Which was why Bucky was surprised to see him sprinting into the library an hour later with a huge grin on his face.

_No one should be that happy coming into a library._

“Hey, Luke,” greeted Steve, wheezing slightly from the exertion as he screeched to a halt at their table with an envelope in his hand. “Buck, you’ll never guess what.”

Pretending to think about it, Bucky put a finger to his chin and guessed, “Hmmm… I won a thousand Galleons?”

“No,” scoffed Steve, rolling his eyes. Bucky snapped his fingers in mock disappointment.

“Man, I could’ve used ‘em, too.”

“Maybe if you stopped making bets with Sam and Clint, you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“No, see, that’s not the problem, Stevie,” complained Bucky. “It’s _losing_ bets. I swear, Sam’s a psychic.”

T’Challa nodded sagely, not bothering to look up from his essay. “Or he’s taking private Divination lessons with Professor Heimdall.”

“Exactly! Luke’s got me on this.” Bucky smirked triumphantly and held out his fist. T’Challa eyed it for a moment before hesitantly bumping it with his own.

“You guys are hilarious,” deadpanned Steve, scooting a chair over from another table to have a seat. “But seriously, Buck, this came in the mail this morning.”

Frowning, Bucky took the envelope from Steve’s outstretched hand and pulled out a folded page of parchment. Something fell out when he went to unfold the letter, and he plucked it up to see a picture of their parents and Becca waving up at him with the Macy’s parade playing in the background on Bucky’s parents’ television. He couldn’t help smiling past the twinge of longing, staring down at the picture for a minute or two before turning his attention to the letter. He recognized his mother’s writing before he even started reading.

> _Boys,_
> 
> _It’s hard to believe you’ve already finished almost half your first year! We’re all so proud of you both. It was hard not having you here for Thanksgiving; we missed you so much. Becca was especially upset that we couldn’t watch Rudolph, but it’s a tradition to watch it together, so we’re waiting until the two of you are home for the holidays. (I know you hate that movie, Steven, but it’s TRADITION.)_
> 
> _That leads me to the most important news: since we weren’t all together for Thanksgiving, we decided to have a shared Christmas this year! We’ll pick you both up at King’s Cross station and then take a Portkey to Brooklyn. We were in London for Thanksgiving last year, so it’s only fitting we spend the holiday in Brooklyn this time around._
> 
> _We miss you both very much and can’t wait to see you—three weeks!_
> 
> _Love from,_
> 
> _All of us_

Bucky almost let out a whoop of excitement but managed to stop himself just in time when he remembered where they were and the fact that an outburst would get them booted out. Instead he grinned at Steve and shook the letter in his hands.

“Christmas in Brooklyn, seriously?!”

“Yeah! It’s gonna be the best,” whispered Steve as the librarian turned in their direction. “Do you think you guys will stay the whole vacation, or just Christmas?”

Bucky shrugged. “No idea, gotta ask Ma and Dad, I guess.” Unexpectedly, the article from that morning popped into his head and he amended, “Wait. Probably not. They’ve got that bill thing at the Ministry before New Year’s, and you _know_ my mom is gonna have to go to that.”

Steve grimaced in a show of mutual disappointment. It wasn’t that Bucky wasn’t interested in what his mom did, but politics were _boring_ and it usually took forever just to make one tiny decision, if they made one at all. He’d been dragged to so many events and functions over the years that he couldn’t imagine how his mom managed to stand it most of the time. Given how big this bill was supposed to be, he had no doubt whatsoever that he would have to go to whatever meeting or conference or whatever they did when they passed laws. It was one of the last things he really wanted to do on his holiday vacation and he briefly considered trying to get out of it, but he could practically hear his mother’s voice saying it would be good for him to see.

_I’m never working for the Ministry,_ he told himself firmly.

Regardless, Christmas in Brooklyn? There was no better gift on earth.


	8. Stars and Boughs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the updated tags - there will be VERY minor gore in this chapter. It won't be graphic, but there is a description in the notes at the end if that can be uncomfortable or triggering for you. Obviously, there will be slight spoilers.
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from a song called "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." To avoid spoilers, the reason why is in the end notes.

“Boys, for the last time, get your fingers out of those cookies!” Sarah screeched, waving them away from the freshly baked gingerbread cookies she’d left cooling on the wire rack. She had been baking Christmas cookies with Bucky’s mom for a couple of hours, and Bucky and Steve had spent most of that time trying to nick whatever they could. Much to their dismay, both their mothers either had eyes in the back of their heads or had cast some kind of spell that told them whenever their sons snuck in the kitchen. They hadn’t made off with much more than a couple of chocolate chips despite their best efforts.

“But Ma,” whined Steve, adopting his best puppy dog pout. “That’s what they’re _for_!”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Sarah shot back, “Yes— _later_.”

“Specifically _after_ dinner,” Bucky’s mother added where she was pulling the next tray out of the oven and replacing it with another. They were finishing the baking by hand while a peeler was magically preparing potatoes at the center island and a pot of curry was stirring itself on the stove. Since it was a combined Christmas, they compromised on some traditions: they were having a buffet-style meal of various lighter cuisines for Christmas Eve the way Bucky’s family always did, and the turkey and traditional fare would be for tomorrow the way the Rogers family liked.

“One cookie won’t spoil our appetites,” countered Bucky with an innocent grin.

Steve caught on quick and vowed, “We’ll even eat _extra_ vegetables.”

_Let’s not go that far!_ Bucky thought as loud as he could, knowing that Steve couldn’t hear him but also that he _could_. The little punk just kept smiling guilelessly up at their mothers, who had eerily similar expressions of skepticism.

“Uh-huh, nice try. You can have the cookies _after_ you eat those extra vegetables,” smirked Sarah, turning them both around and giving them a push toward the door. She swatted their behinds once for good measure. “Now _scoot_. Don’t let me catch you in here again or I know two boys who won’t be getting cookies at all.”

It was an idle threat, or at least Bucky hoped it was, but they scurried out of the kitchen regardless in the face of the potential sugar ban. They retreated into the living room, where Becca was playing with Winter on the floor while Bucky’s dad was watching the news with a frown on his face. Bucky didn’t bother trying to listen to what the anchor was saying—something about a missing persons case or whatever—and dove in to tickle his little sister from behind. She shrieked with laughter as she swatted at his hands, but it was too late: he had a firm grip and a minute later, she was curled up in a ball pleading with him to stop through her giggles.

Bucky eventually relented, settling down on the floor for Winter to crawl up into his lap. She was growing impossibly fast now and was almost half as tall as Steve (okay, maybe not _that_ big, but he liked seeing Steve’s reaction to the comparison), although his dad said that she probably wouldn’t get much bigger. Bucky was actually relieved to hear it: as cool as it would be to get to the point where he didn’t have to search every tiny crevice to see where she was hiding, he was still small enough to worry about being able to hold her if his kitten either got too big or he didn’t grow fast enough.

Not that he would complain about such things in front of Clint, who was already vocal enough about what he could do with Winter instead of bringing her to school.

Steve, keeping a few feet of distance from the bane of his allergies, hopped onto the couch next to Bucky’s dad and joined him in watching the news. Bucky wasn’t sure why they couldn’t watch Christmas movies, but his father was engrossed, so whatever was going on was probably something important. Eventually playing with the kitten in his lap couldn’t distract him entirely, so Bucky sighed and turned to look at the screen. The news anchor was speaking off to the left while a house surrounded by police was pictured on the other side. The cars didn’t look American—they looked like the ones the cops drove in London.

“This marks the fourth disappearance in the last two days,” the anchor was explaining in the same politely disinterested yet sympathetic tone all people on the news seemed to have. (His dad said once it was probably a job requirement.) “According to local authorities, the same circumstances surround each case for each alleged victim: all of them lived alone, were confirmed to have been home earlier in the day by neighbors and friends, and their cars were all still present at the scene. Other personal belongings that could be used to communicate or track them were found in the houses. An officer in Croydon said that it’s almost as if they’re ‘vanishing into thin air.’ So far, the disappearances have occurred in Reading, Croydon, London, and now Oxford. Residents in the towns and suburbs surrounding London are warned not to travel or remain in their homes alone if at all possible.”

“Okay,” sighed his father, picking up the remote and turning to a channel that played Christmas movies twenty-four hours a day until _The Day_. “That’s enough of that.”

_A Christmas Story_ was playing, which Bucky knew for a fact was his dad’s favorite holiday movie, but his father’s eyes seemed like they were looking right through the screen as he bit his lip worriedly. It wasn’t something he did often; as a soldier he had been used to stress, so he was pretty laidback when times were tough. This was the first time Bucky thought he’d seen him look genuinely _bothered_ , so he got to his feet and moved to sit in the last unoccupied spot on the couch.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” he asked softly.

His father looked down at him and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing, Bucky.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows the way his mom always did when she heard something blatantly false, and even Winter was on his side as she crawled right into his dad’s lap and clawed her way up the front of his sweater to make him feel better. His smirk turned a little more authentic as he scratched her head, but he didn’t address the lingering question in Bucky’s eyes. A few minutes later, under the scrutiny of _both_ boys once Steve got the hint that something was up, he placed Winter back in Bucky’s arms and stood up, heading into the kitchen to see how dinner was coming.

Steve frowned over at Bucky for a second before they scooted into the center of the sofa.

“D’you think it’s about what they said on the news?” inquired Steve, eyes narrowed.

“Duh,” breathed Bucky, earning a jab of Steve’s elbow. “Don’t know why, though—we’re not there and you guys are the only other family we have.”

“Yeah, but if it’s all over the Muggle news—“ (Bucky felt a vague sense of satisfaction that the word was starting to grow on Steve and resolved to tease him mercilessly about it later.) “—that probably means it’s not wizards. Why would he worry when he’s got your mom around?”

Shrugging, Bucky just shook his head. He didn’t have an answer for that, and Sarah chose that moment to call them to the table for dinner anyway.

The rest of the evening was too filled with good food and fun for Bucky to think about what the lady on the news had said again, and after consuming way too much dinner _and_ cookies on top of it, they retired to the living room to watch Christmas movies late into the night.

Bedtime was the usual chaotic affair, which was apparently a tradition for both families, with Becca whining that she wanted to stay up to see Santa while Steve and Bucky tried to leverage their way into opening just _one_ present before going to sleep. They’d bartered three months’ allowance, all their savings (which amounted to twelve Galleons, four Sickles, and one Knut between the two of them once they converted Steve’s American currency), and a month of doing various chores around the house—all to no avail. The presents were strictly off limits until the following morning.

“And don’t even _think_ about coming down here after everyone’s asleep like you did last year, James Barnes,” warned his mother.

Bucky cringed. Last year was a holiday that would go down in history. It had been the first Christmas after his parents broke the news to him that Santa wasn’t real (Steve had figured it out years earlier but was nice enough to allow Bucky his delusions), and he decided his finest act of retribution would be to open his presents in the middle of the night since there was no bearded fat guy he had to wait for anymore. Unfortunately, his mother had apparently cast a Detection Charm on every present and he found out the fun way that touching even one package before Christmas morning had _officially_ begun would cause it to scream bloody murder until his mom came down to see who was sneaking peeks. It wasn’t one of his proudest moments, and definitely not an incident he wanted to repeat.

So they went to bed, Becca sleeping in the guest room with their parents while Bucky kipped in a sleeping bag on Steve’s floor as usual, and tried to stamp out the itch to see what was under the tree until a reasonable enough hour for them to barge in and wake the rest of the house.

That reasonable hour being dawn. Dawn was good.

It was definitely worth the wait. Bucky’s parents had given him the usual mix of candy, clothing, and Quidditch paraphernalia; he’d also gotten a Galactic Guardians poster for his dormitory from Sarah and a framed pencil sketch of Winter from Steve. (The likeness was so uncanny that Winter hopped around the frame for at least ten minutes, glaring down at the _other_ cat in confused distrust.) The most amazing gift of all, however, was a long rectangular package containing a Nimbus 3002. After he tackled both his parents in his excitement, he and Steve spent an inordinate amount of time examining every twig on the broomstick and chattering excitedly until Bucky’s dad reminded them there were still more presents to be opened.

“Also,” he added while Bucky laid the Nimbus back in the case like the precious masterpiece it was. “That’s not going to school with you.”

Pouting, Bucky whined, “But _Dad_ —“

“We’ve already told you first years aren’t allowed their own brooms at school,” interrupted his mom, her tone brooking no argument. “You can try it out later and then you can take it with you next year.”

“But that’s _so long_!”

“You’ll survive.”

He considered arguing about that but changed his mind at the last second. Last time he’d tried convincing his mom that he couldn’t possibly live without something, his parents threatened to take away something he _really_ couldn’t live without for a while and see how he liked it. (Yeah, it was just his computer, but the fact remained—it was _harsh_.)

They continued delving into the dwindling pile of packages until late in the morning. Becca, who had apparently started showing signs of magic and _he’d missed it_ , got a toy broomstick that looked just like Bucky’s (which she _loved_ ) while only hovering about three feet off the ground (which she did _not_ love). Steve’s big present of the year was a sketchbook filled with parchment that would make his drawings move like magical pictures did, and he hardly had the thing in his hands before he was trying it out, stick figures jumping up and down in place or running across the page depending on the poses he gave them.

When they’d finally gotten through everything—hours after they’d started—the adults filtered into the kitchen for refills on their coffee while Steve, Bucky, and Becca played with their latest possessions. Bucky couldn’t help pulling out his Nimbus again, gawking at the design and test-mounting it. Laughing at his enthusiasm, Steve ordered him to stay still and drew a cartoon version of Bucky on the broom. It whizzed around the parchment, looping upside down and veering into nosedives. That only made him want to try it out _more_ , and he popped into the kitchen to ask if he could test his broom outside, but all three of their parents immediately refused.

“For one thing, it’s freezing outside,” reasoned Sarah when he whined in protest. “And for another, there are too many No-Majs here. You’d be seen before your feet left the ground.”

His dad took a sip of his coffee and consoled him, “Let’s wait until tomorrow. We’ll head down to the park and give it a shot. There probably won’t be anyone around to see.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn’t argue as he stomped back into the living room. Steve glanced up from his sketch of Winter, who was rolling around on the floor with the stuffed monkey his parents had put in her very own stocking, and grimaced sympathetically. “No luck?”

“Too cold and too many Muggles,” he muttered in confirmation.

Nodding, Steve shrugged. “Just think about Sam’s _face_ when you tell ‘im.”

Bucky barked a laugh. After seeing the first Quidditch game of the season, Sam had become obsessed with the sport and flying in general. He’d been researching the best kinds of brooms and their specs, and he declared it his goal to get his parents to buy him one of his own so he could try out for the house team next year. They’d been using the brooms provided by Hogwarts for their flying lessons, but they were an ancient set that not even Bucky could recognize the brand of—he had combed through his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ an obscene number of times trying to figure it out.

“What do you think the odds are that Stark has invented his own broom yet?” Steve continued distractedly, trying to get the shading just right on the kitten’s ears and frowning when his subject absolutely refused to stay still on the floor in front of them.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky retorted, “He’s probably already got three models that aren’t legal and a full size, four-seater in the works.”

Steve scoffed and they exchanged a disbelieving glance before both their faces fell. If anyone could do it, it would be Tony Stark.

Bucky would have to make a mental note to ask him.

 

***

 

He awoke with a start when the door of Steve’s room opened, flooding the darkened bedroom with bright light from the hallway. Steve groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, but Bucky squinted up to see his dad bending over him. A second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder as his father shook him gently.

“Come on, Bucky, you need to get up,” he whispered urgently.

“Wuz go’on?” slurred Bucky in response. Christmas had been so exciting that neither he nor Steve could sleep, so they’d stayed up ridiculously late playing video games and he felt like they had literally _just_ gone to bed.

His dad didn’t respond right away, moving quickly to the other side of the room and throwing Bucky’s clothes into his school trunk where they were spilling out onto the floor. The expression on his face was grim and a little scared—Bucky didn’t think he’d ever seen his dad afraid of _anything_ , and as he began to feel more awake, it made him freak out a little.

“Dad?” he tried again, his voice just barely more than a whisper.

Before he could get an answer, his mom popped her head inside the door. Becca was curled up in her arms, blearily rubbing her eyes and clearly half asleep. His mom wore the same expression as his father, and it was really starting to frighten him.

“George, leave the trunk. We’ll have it sent along after us. Baby,” she turned her attention to Bucky and visibly tried to make her expression more reassuring, “you need to get dressed—hurry.”

She disappeared before Bucky could roll out of his sleeping bag and onto his feet. His dad was still throwing all Bucky’s things into his trunk while he changed into a pair of jeans and threw a hoodie on over the T-shirt he’d been sleeping in. By that point, Steve had woken up enough to peer out at them from where he was still hiding from the light, and Bucky could tell his eyebrows were contracting.

“What’s happening?” he mumbled, his voice muffled.

Bucky just shrugged, turning around when he heard his trunk latch and then his dad’s hand was back on his shoulder. “Dad, what’s—“

“No time to explain right now,” his father cut him off, steering him towards the hallway. He heard Steve jump out of bed and follow them a moment later.

“But where’re we going?”

No answer.

They made it down the stairs to see Bucky’s mom, Becca, Sarah, and two wizards in black robes standing just inside the front door. The unfamiliar wizards had serious, stoic expressions that reminded Bucky forcibly of Professor Fury. His mom was talking to the one on the left in hushed tones, her brow furrowed in concern, before she turned to see them approaching.

As soon as he spotted them, the wizard she had been conversing with waved his wand and murmured, “Undersecretary and family secure. Arriving at the Ministry momentarily.” A silvery-white wisp shot from the tip of his wand and straight through the closed door out into the night.

_The Ministry?_ wondered Bucky silently, now completely bemused. Why would they have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the Ministry of Magic? He thought vaguely of the Initiative, but that wasn’t set to be done for another few days; his mom had told him when they got off the train that they would stay until then. And besides, why did they _all_ need to go? If something important had happened, wouldn’t they just need his mom?

No one seemed forthcoming with an explanation, and the wizard who hadn’t yet spoken grunted, “When you’re ready, Madam Undersecretary.”

His mother nodded and hefted Becca up into her arms. A split second later, he felt his dad’s hands under his armpits as he, too, was lifted into the air and held tightly. Bucky was almost too big for it, but his dad carried him easily as he took a step closer to link his free arm with his wife’s. She glanced between Bucky and Becca before saying, “We’re Apparating, so it’s going to feel a little strange for a moment. Don’t panic, and don’t let go of us, okay?”

Becca silently wrapped her arms around their mother’s neck and Bucky nodded, swallowing hard. Sarah, who had been standing wordlessly off to the side heretofore, stepped forward. Bucky saw for the first time that she was carrying Winter.

“Don’t want to forget her,” she whispered, pressing the kitten into the space between Bucky’s and his father’s chests before pecking a kiss to his forehead. Bucky wrapped his arm tightly around Winter, and she seemed to catch on to the seriousness of what was happening as her claws dug into the fabric of his hoodie. When Sarah retreated, Bucky saw that there were tears in her eyes and she gripped Steve’s shoulders tightly where he stood at the foot of the steps, still just as confused as Bucky was.

There were two pops behind him and then they were turning—the house vanished into a black void that pressed in on them from all sides. Bucky tried to gasp, but he couldn’t pull in a breath or move or…anything. It was like what he figured a bug getting sucked up into a vacuum hose would be, and all he could do was close his eyes and wait for it to be over.

It felt like an eternity but was probably in reality only a few seconds before the air opened up around them and he was able to breathe again. Winter was meowing in discomfort and pawing at his chest, but Bucky couldn’t get past his own bout of nausea to even begin to comfort her. Instead he pressed his face into his dad’s neck and just tried to will his stomach back into compliance.

Then his dad started walking, and Bucky lifted his head just enough to see over his shoulder. They were in a small antechamber; the walls were paneled wood and there were comfortable-looking plush couches on either side of the room. The lights were dim, only a couple of lamps lit on the end tables by each sofa, and he could just make out bookshelves stacked with tomes both old and new lining the walls. At the far end was a set of closed double doors guarded by the two wizards who had escorted them from Brooklyn, and Bucky turned his head curiously to see that they were heading into another office ahead.

This one was _packed_.

The office was enormous with a large picture window at the far end behind a desk. Bucky knew that the view of the Thames was a counterfeit from his mom saying that the Ministry was completely underground, but it made the room a little less stifling nonetheless. There were two leather sofas on either side of a cherry coffee table, with an armchair at the far ends. This room was also lined with shelves, some containing books while others displayed a number of bobbles and trinkets Bucky had never seen before. Various portraits were hung at random intervals in the few empty spaces and above the shelves, their inhabitants watching the proceedings with a mixture of curious and angry expressions.

There were at least ten other people in the room, most of them holding themselves as though prepared for an attack at any moment, and Bucky wondered if these were Aurors or bodyguards of some kind. Behind the desk sat Minister Stern, who was staring down at a sheet of parchment. His face had absolutely no color to it, like the blood had been drained out and left him almost ghostlike in his paleness. On the couch sat who Bucky recognized as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, although he couldn’t remember her name, and what appeared to be her assistant. They were actually using a Muggle laptop, scrolling through a webpage with pursed lips and serious expressions.

When the door closed behind Bucky’s family, the Minister looked up from what he had been reading and his face grew, if it was possible, even more severe.

“Winifred,” he greeted with a nod, but there was no warmth to the gesture. “Good to see you and your family are safe.”

His mom didn’t bother with pleasantries and went right to business. “Minister, I’ve only heard the bare minimum of what’s actually been going on. Now you pulled me and my family out of bed in the middle of the night on a holiday—I want to know what’s happening, and I want to know _now_.”

Sneering, Minister Stern just looked her up and down for a long moment. Bucky remembered his mother saying that he was slimy (even if he _was_ competent) in the past, but he’d never seen it himself until now. The man had a condescending air about him that put Professor Phillips to shame.

“Most high-ranking Ministry officials have been brought in tonight with their families. Have you been keeping up with the news, Winifred?”

“Of course,” she practically scoffed, shifting Becca in her arms.

“Then you’ll have seen the stories about those Muggles who went missing.”

Frowning, she answered carefully, “I did. What does that have to do with the Ministry?”

Stern took a deep breath. “They weren’t _all_ Muggles. Two of them were,” he explained when she opened her mouth to say something else, “but the other two were ours. Lower level employees of the Ministry, in fact. One was a record keeper for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the other an investigator with Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

Bucky looked back at his mom, who was silent for a minute, appearing to be gathering herself before she spoke. When she did, it was with no inflection whatsoever—her _Political Bad News_ voice that his dad teased her about sometimes.

“That sounds oddly poetic given current circumstances.”

 Stern twitched his eyebrows and glanced at the pair sitting on the sofa. “Ms. van Dyne, if you would.”

The woman Bucky recognized pulled her attention away from the computer and shot Stern a look before turning to address his mom. “That’s what we thought as well. We’ve been monitoring Muggle news outlets closely today once it was brought to our attention, and…they were found. About an hour ago.”

There was something strangled in her tone and Bucky’s mom gently prompted her, “Janet?”

Taking a deep breath, Janet shook her head. “It’s not a pretty sight,” she cautioned, turning the computer to face them. It was an article from the BBC’s site, the headline reading, “MISSING PERSONS FOUND – CULPRIT STILL AT LARGE.” The picture at the top showed four people lying on the ground in a circle, their heads pointed inwards and holding hands. That wasn’t what turned Bucky’s stomach, though.

The bodies were on fire in the “before” pictures.

In the “after” ones, they were hardly recognizable as people anymore. Their skin was black and charred, and bone was showing through in more than one place; their jaws hung open in eternal screams. There was patch on each of their foreheads, however, that didn’t appear to have been touched by the flames at all, still fresh and clean. That patch, however, was carved with a letter: two had an M, and two had a W. Nausea flaring up in his stomach again, Bucky looked away from the screen.

His mom pulled in a sharp breath and set Becca down, the latter grabbing hold of their father’s leg tightly, before moving forward to take a closer look.

“Muggle and wizard or witch,” she murmured, seemingly to herself, and Janet nodded in affirmation.

“A letter was delivered for the Minister at almost the exact same time the Muggle authorities found the bodies.”

Janet gestured to Stern, who picked up the parchment he’d been examining when they arrived and read aloud, “ _Magical and Muggle cooperation: we’ll all burn together_. And there’s some kind of seal at the bottom.” He held out the parchment and Bucky’s mother took it gingerly, scanning its contents with a furrowed brow.

“Usually it’s a skull and crossbones, not tentacles.”

“Our department is looking into what that sigil means, but I remember seeing something like it a few years ago in Bulgaria,” Janet offered, sitting back and tossing her glasses onto the table with a look of frustration. “Based on current intelligence and the timing of this little stunt, I’d say it looks like we have a radical anti-Initiative faction looking to coerce us into vetoing the bill.”

“Because picketing is just too blasé,” his mom remarked sarcastically. She took a deep breath and then glanced back at where they were waiting as if only just realizing that they were there at all. “Minister, if it’s all right, I think I’d rather discuss this without my young children present. They’ve already seen more than is appropriate.”

“Of course,” he drawled, pointing to one of the Aurors. “Escort the Undersecretary’s family to her office, please. High-level officials and their relatives aren’t permitted to leave the Ministry at this time, as I’m sure you’ll understand,” he added condescendingly as he looked over at them for the first time since they entered the room.

Bucky’s father nodded tersely, exchanging a significant glance with his wife before taking Becca’s hand and following the Auror out of the office back through the antechamber they’d arrived in earlier. They were led down a winding series of passages, and Bucky lost track of where they were going by the time they reached the office marked with his mother’s name. While they had attended many Ministry events over the years, some Bucky couldn’t even remember because he had been so young at the time, he didn’t have many memories of being in her office. It was rather simple, a large square space about half the size of Stern’s office. Her desk was at the far end of the room, and she had a plush sofa on the wall to their left. Adjacent was an end table and lamp, which his father switched on immediately, and there was a small bookshelf on the opposite side facing the couch. Silver picture frames lined the top, documenting the history of their family, and Bucky saw his own face smiling back at him in many of them. Even Steve and Sarah were in a couple, and the figures in the pictures grinned and waved, unaware of the fact that in a few years they’d be sitting in this office thinking about four people being killed over something his mother was trying to do for the greater good of _everybody_.

The door shut quietly behind them, the Auror saying he would still be keeping watch on the corridor outside, and Bucky’s dad deposited him on the couch with a sigh. Becca climbed up beside him and curled into his side; Bucky wrapped his arm around her, using the other to hold Winter close to his chest. The kitten had gone quiet when they entered the Minister’s office, and Bucky would have thought she’d gone to sleep if not for the way she tried to burrow further into his neck every now and again.

He watched as his dad paced the insubstantial length of the office, running a hand through his hair and looking like his mind was miles away. Bucky wanted to say something, but he wasn’t quite sure what there would be to talk about. There were no questions to ask—it had all been inescapably clear—and he didn’t think his dad would be up to answering anything right now anyway. Becca was obviously scared out of her wits and wanted nothing more than the comfort of closeness, and all of his belongings were still in Steve’s room, so there was really nothing for them to do but sit curled up in the corner of the couch and wait.

 

***

 

It was three hours before his mom joined them. Becca had eventually fallen asleep beside him, and Bucky had been dozing on and off while his father continued to pace the room with his eyes warily focused on the door.

When his mom came in, she looked more tired than Bucky had ever seen her, but there was a fire in her eyes that she usually only got when she was really, _really_ pissed. No one said anything until the door closed behind her, and even then there was a long minute of silence as she pulled in a deep breath and held it.

“That man is a _coward_ ,” she eventually snarled, stalking further into the room and leaning over her desk.

Raising an eyebrow, his dad put a hand on her back and quietly inquired, “What happened?”

“He’s delaying the decision, that’s what happened.”

His father was silent for a minute, his mind obviously working a mile a minute to figure out how to talk to her without making anything worse. Ultimately, he settled on admitting, “Maybe it’s for the best, Win. Four people are dead, an—“

“I know four people are dead, George,” she snapped, rounding on him in a towering rage. “I’m very well aware of it, but thank you _so much_ for reminding me anyway. Does that mean we just give in to terrorists? We let mad buffoons and sadistic mobs rule the Ministry? Why don’t we just let them in to make the laws while we’re at it—that sounds like a bloody _fantastic_ idea.”

“You know that’s not wh—“

“Minister Stern, that absolute tosspot, said it would be better to avoid _making any rash policy decisions until we’ve figured out who was behind the attack and brought them to justice_ ,” she mocked with a harsh laugh. “Which could take years, not that it matters to him since he fought against the idea of this bill for _months_. The best way to show a terrorist you won’t be cowed by mob mentality is not to give in to fear. Instead of just passing the damn bill so that we can actually work _with_ Muggle law enforcement to find whoever did this, we’re just going to do what they want and hope they come out of the woodwork if we try _looking_ hard enough.”

“But on the other side, do you really want to involve Muggles with people who already showed they don’t give a shit about killing them? Or your kind either, for that matter?” his dad stopped her rant, eyeing her incredulously. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re more pissed about his decision or the fact that your damn bill isn’t going to get passed.”

It was the first time Bucky had ever heard his father curse at his mom, and her mouth fell open in surprise before her expression hardened. “How _dare_ you even _suggest_ such a thing?”

“How dare I? Listen to yourself!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disgust. “Four people died and you have no idea who’s behind it. They’re probably wizards, which puts us all at risk, and they’re obviously out for blood. This time it was a couple of peons you didn’t know from another department—who’ll it be next time? Stern’s not looking to kill the bill or he would have told you so. You’ve made it clear this guy isn’t one to mince words.”

“Postponing it is just the first step to doing exactly that!”

“Then there’ll be other times to push it through, Win! If you’ve got people _that desperate_ to stop it that they’ll start killing people, the last thing you need is for them to get away with it and be an example for everyone else who isn’t a fan. Pushing through that bill is only going to show them that your ideals are more important to you than innocent lives.”

“And _not_ pushing it through will show them that violence will get them what they want,” his mother countered, her voice low and dangerous. “How many more attacks just like this one will happen in the future when the Ministry tries to do something people don’t like?”

“How many more will happen while the Ministry sits on its ass pushing a bill through instead of trying to find these thugs?"

“We can do _both_ at the same time.”

“And what if you _can’t_? What if _you’re next_?” They were practically screaming at each other, but at that, his mother paled and fell silent. His dad didn’t let up, though. “What happens if you’re next? What happens if they see that killing normal people isn’t going to show you they’re serious and they up their game? You know what, fifteen years ago, I would have been with you on this. I really would have. But we have _kids_ , Winnie—think about _them_.”

He waved a hand back in their general direction and Bucky saw his mom’s eyes flick to him and Becca momentarily before his dad continued, “They shouldn’t lose their mother. They shouldn’t become possible _targets_ for freaks who want to send a message. I can’t use magic—I can’t protect them, not against this. Not against these people. This isn’t Afghanistan. I’m… I’m _worthless_ here.” Gradually, he was beginning to deflate, looking tired and upset and so very, very disappointed. Bucky saw the reflection of tears in his eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead he continued to survey Bucky’s mother closely, his expression more sad than angry now. “If the difference between putting our whole family in danger or their safety— _and_ _yours—_ is to wait a few months until these guys are found, I’m all for it. Muggles and wizards haven’t worked together all this time; a little longer isn’t going to change anything.”

A lone tear trailed down his mother’s face and she nodded weakly, wrapping her arms around his dad’s middle as they held each other close. Bucky merely watched in silence, squeezing Winter as hard as he dared without her scratching him unhappily, and wondered if all of this was _really_ worth the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bucky and his family see an article on a news website showing images of four people with letters (W and M) carved into their foreheads who were killed, set on fire, and left to decompose in the street. If you don't wish to read this part, you can skip from "Taking a deep breath, Janet shook her head" to "His mom pulled in a sharp breath" without missing any important details. The content is contained within a couple of sentences and does not include graphic depictions. Regardless, please only read what you feel comfortable with.
> 
> *On the title: There's a part of the song that was changed from its original version in the film "Meet Me in St. Louis" to make it less unhappy ("hang a shining star upon the highest bough" versus "until then we'll have to muddle through somehow"), so it seemed to fit the dichotomy of this chapter.


	9. Fame (2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the time-jump! A year and a half has passed between the last chapter and this one.

“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, you watch your mouth this instant,” his mother hissed in his ear, somehow managing to maintain her perfect smile for the cameras that were flashing in their faces as soon as they stepped through the barrier to platform nine and three-quarters.

Bucky didn’t even bother trying to paste a grin on his face. His cheeks were still sore from the marathon smiling he’d done all summer long on his mother’s campaign trail—given that he hadn’t gotten a day to himself _the whole time_. After her Barnes Initiative had been pushed off indefinitely just before the start of his second year, his mom came to the conclusion that Minister Stern just wasn’t cutting it and that she would run for Minister during the next election. She’d spent most of the year putting all her energy towards campaigning for the same values and policies that the Initiative had stood for and traveling all around the United Kingdom to raise awareness for the cause. Then, in May, she officially declared her intent to run. It didn’t really surprise anyone at the time: she’d always been vocal in the Wizarding community and had a lot of followers who believed she was right. If the polls were any indication, she was the favorite to win against Stern, unless he came up with some brilliant campaign strategy before the elections in January. Given the widespread disapproval of his lackadaisical efforts to round up members of the terrorist organization Hydra, who they discovered had been the ones behind the disappearance and murder of two Muggles and two wizards over eighteen months prior, it wasn’t looking good for the current Minister.

So the summer had been dedicated to _pressing the flesh_ , as his mother disdainfully put it, and unfortunately that meant showing the people a dedicated, supportive family as well. His father had taken a leave of absence but still continued to work remotely as they traveled not just all around the U.K., but also throughout Europe to get as many favorable foreign dignitaries to offer their support as possible. They hadn’t been home at all that summer, and Bucky had relied on his cell phone for maintaining his sanity the entire time. He had never looked forward to the first of September more, knowing that at least his third year of school would keep him from having to tag along and smile for the cameras for the next few months.

He really should have known the fucking press would show up. _Seriously, I just wanted one day where I didn’t have to be Future Minister Barnes’s son. Is that really too much to ask?_

Apparently it was. A subtle jab to his side prompted him to lift the corner of his mouth into the best smirk he could manage (which wasn’t much of one).

“Ma, this is embarrassing,” he whispered through his teeth, his eyes darting around to see his classmates pointing and talking. He realized with sudden clarity that this must be how T’Challa felt every time he went out at home and why he still, albeit bitterly, went by _Luke_ at Hogwarts.

There was a sigh beside him, but he was too busy doing what a _good supportive son_ was supposed to and trying not to be a public disappointment. “They just wanted to see you off, darling. It’s hardly a crime.”

_Neither is flipping them off in public, but you don’t see me doing it._

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder and he heard his dad say behind him, “I think that’s enough. He’s going to be late if we don’t get a move on, Winnie.”

This was clearly going to be one of those days where Bucky thanked every power in existence that his dad always had his back.

Bucky shifted Winter’s weight in his arms as they began to tactfully make their way through the sea of reporters, but apparently they didn’t just want pictures: half of them wanted him to be diplomatic and answer actual questions while the other half was hoping they could use this opportunity to get a few words with his mother. A part of him wished she could just stop and hold a press conference while he snuck away in peace, but he knew better than to expect an easy out by now.

“James, are you excited to start your third year?”

Oh, and his mother also refused to call him by his nickname in front of the press, which made everything an even _bigger_ delight than it already was.

“Yeah, it’ll be great,” he answered automatically with an entirely fake lopsided grin. Winter hissed in the reporters’ direction, and he gave her a gentle kiss on the head. _Good kitty._

“What two classes are you thinking of adding to your schedule? Does your mother want you to take Muggle Studies?”

“She wants me to take whatever I like.”

“Do you have Muggle-born friends at school?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“You were on the Quidditch team last term, right?”

“Yes.”

“What position did you play?”

“Beater.”

“Are you going to be on the team again?”

“Guess that depends on tryouts.”

His mother was fielding more political questions next to him, so he knew he wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t exactly as if he’d signed up for this—it was sort of the occupational hazard of being a Barnes these days. Regardless, his patience was honestly being tested, especially after that question about Muggle-borns. Why the hell wouldn’t he have Muggle-born friends? Some of the best and brightest he knew at Hogwarts were half-blood or less. Sam and Clint had become two of his best friends, and while the latter was still pretty flighty even after two years, they were both great people. Did it matter that they hadn’t come from magical families? Of course not. But hey, his mom was the guru of wizard-Muggle relations, so _obviously_ they had to check and see if her son was a bigot. It was only the right thing to do.

 _Fuck these people_ , he thought venomously. The train honestly couldn’t leave soon enough.

A few reporters threw another couple of questions his way, but he pretended not to hear as he turned to his dad and breathed, “Dad, can we just _go_? Please?”

His father nodded knowingly and leaned over to whisper in his mother’s ear. She turned and gave them a quick, tight smile before going back to talking about whatever nonsense politics she was on about now while his dad put a hand on his back, aiming a brilliant smile at the press.

“Sorry, we’ve still got to get him settled in, if you’ll excuse us.”

They kept shouting their questions, but his dad just led him and Becca through the crowd, ignoring them as he pushed Bucky’s trolley along like a battering ram. Becca kept her head down, an irritated scowl on her face. Her eight-year-old temper frequently got the better of her when she was the center of that amount of public attention, and the campaign trail had made it a rough summer. Now she would have to deal with it without Bucky to cheer her up by making silly faces for her when no one else could see. As relieved as Bucky was to be getting away from the public eye for a while, he was sincerely regretful that he couldn’t make it better for her.

Bucky reached a hand over and mussed her hair, and she swatted angrily at his hand. He refused to let up until she smiled, though, then pulled her into his side for a hug. Their dad watched with a small smirk, but Bucky could see the regret in his eyes. They’d had this discussion before, so Bucky took a deep breath to cool his own temper and not make things worse.

“It’s not your fault, Dad,” he muttered, glancing back to make sure no stray reporters had followed on their heels.

“I know that,” he sighed, shaking his head. “But you both have been through enough campaigning. It was a hard summer, and it just keeps going.”

“I just don’t get why they need to ask _me_ all those questions. I’m not the one trying to be Minister.”

Chuckling, his father replied dryly, “Your mom has been careful not to do anything to jeopardize her reputation to her constituency. They’ll look for just about anything to make her problematic, even if that’s a moody preteen son.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s called thir _teen_ for a reason, Dad. I’m a _teenager_ , not a preteen.” This was an argument they’d _also_ been having frequently ever since Bucky’s birthday in March.

“Nah, no way. Still a preteen.”

“When I was twelve, maybe.”

“Cut me a break, kid, and stop reminding me. I’m getting old.”

“You’re not old, Daddy,” Becca chimed in with a sly grin. “You’re not allowed to be old until _I_ go to Hogwarts.”

Bucky gave her a little shake. “You’re right, Becs. Then he’ll be _ancient_.”

She giggled up at him and their dad heaved an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “What did I do to deserve you two?”

“Had to be good, whatever it was,” reasoned Bucky, laughing when his dad slung an arm over his shoulder.

“You’ve got a point there, Buck. You’ve definitely got a point there.”

The tone of the conversation suddenly shifted, and his smile turned more wistful. “In all seriousness, I hope you know how proud I am of you, both of you,” he added with a glance down at Becca. “I know this is hard. You two really pulled it together for your mom. She probably hasn’t remembered to say it, but I know she appreciates that. We couldn’t ask for two better kids.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Bucky mumbled, looking down at the ground. He hated the mushy stuff, but it always made his chest a little lighter to hear his parents say things like that.

Once they were well past all the hullabaloo, they found an empty compartment and, now that Bucky was taller, he helped his dad heft his trunk, broom, and Winter’s unoccupied cage (also bigger) inside. When they emerged back onto the platform to wait for his mom to finish her flesh pressing, Bucky took a quick look around. It was almost comical to see the first years, who looked so _small_ —he knew they’d been that size when they started, but it was jarring to see it now. There were a few faces he recognized, and they waved or nodded in greeting from where they stood with family or other friends. Clint gave a wave through the crowd and then promptly returned to arguing with someone Bucky assumed was his brother Barney, who Clint couldn’t seem to mention without complaining; he spotted Peggy and Daniel chatting animatedly further down the platform.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Bucky Barnes,” a familiar voice called, and Bucky groaned as he watched Steve dodge a trolley on his way over, Sarah following in his wake.

“Not even funny, punk,” he mumbled, holding Winter to the side and giving Steve a one-armed hug. Steve’s allergies had gotten better over the last year with some magical help, but unlike Bucky, he hadn’t grown much and his asthma still acted up occasionally, so Bucky didn’t want to take any chances.

“Well,” began Sarah, smirking wickedly, “when we don’t see you outside of the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ all summer…”

“Which is totally _not_ my fault!”

She laughed lightly, pulling him in for a hug with Winter crushed between them. “I know it’s not,” she whispered quietly in his ear, rocking them back and forth for a moment before holding him at arm’s length. “And look at you. You’ll be taller than your dad before we know it.”

Nodding sarcastically, his father wrapped her in a fond embrace. “Uh-huh, yeah. Thanks, Sarah.”

“Any time, George. Where’s Winnie?”

“Off speaking to the huddled masses,” he responded with a humorless smile. Sarah raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the clock hanging on one of the pillars.

“It’s almost eleven. She’ll be cutting it pretty close.”

“Yeah.”

They exchanged a significant glance that Bucky couldn’t quite read, and he turned to shrug at Steve. “Do we wanna know?”

“Probably not,” was his solemn reply before they both burst into a fit of giggles. “So really, how was traveling all around everywhere?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked over to his dad, who was now speaking with Sarah in hushed tones, but he didn’t want to take a chance. “I’ll tell you later,” he grunted. Steve took the hint and nodded once in acknowledgement.

While the clock ticked closer to eleven, Steve gave Bucky some details about his summer instead, although there apparently wasn’t a whole lot to tell. They’d texted pretty much anytime Bucky wasn’t in front of an audience somewhere (or sometimes when he _was_ ), and occasionally they actually spoke on the phone; he was too mobile to get much time to sit down and Skype, so they hadn’t been face-to-face since leaving school at the end of the previous term. Still, there was some stuff Steve hadn’t mentioned that he meant to be a surprise—like the fact that his mom got a raise and _bought him a racing broom that he’d been practicing with so he could go out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year_!

“I swear, I could catch a Quaffle in my _sleep_ ,” he told Bucky excitedly, and Bucky couldn’t help grinning at his enthusiasm.

He also couldn’t help teasing him just a little: “With your hands or your face?”

“Really, Buck?”

“Just wondering, Stevie.”

“Yeah, go fuck yourself,” he muttered under his breath, hazarding a wary glance over at Sarah. She was thankfully not paying attention. Chuckling, Bucky scratched an increasingly restless Winter behind the ears before turning his attention back to Steve.

“But seriously, Steve, that’s awesome,” he congratulated him earnestly before donning a wicked grin. “It’ll be fun trying to knock you off your broom.”

Steve snorted. “That’s _if_ I make the team.”

“Sure you will. Rhodey and Thor are the only other decent players—they’re gonna need you.”

“You’re forgetting Wade,” cautioned Steve with a smirk.

“Wilson?” Bucky thought for a second about the slightly insane now-second year who had somehow managed to impress Phillips into letting him do a mock tryout last term—he was so good (or, more accurately, _dangerous_ ) with a Bludger that he’d been made honorary backup Beater. He didn’t get to play, but he was just as excited to be on the bench and was pretty much guaranteed a spot this year.

“Okay, yeah, you might have a point.”

They both chortled but were interrupted a moment later by his mother’s rather harried arrival.

“Sorry, sorry—they simply couldn’t get enough!” she exclaimed, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe they would be _that_ interested in what she had to say. Bucky had a whole summer’s worth of experiences to know that that was bullshit, but he wouldn’t call her on it when they only had five minutes to say goodbye and get on the train.

“Thought you might not make it,” Sarah joked, giving her a quick hug. His mom laughed weakly, glancing sheepishly at Bucky’s dad before smiling back at Sarah.

“There’s no way I’d miss it. How was your summer, Steve?”

Steve plastered on his most polite smile, putting in some effort in spite of the fact that he knew Bucky was irritated with his mother right now. “It was good. Saw the campaign’s going well, congratulations.”

“Oh, thank you, dear. We’re certainly trying.” She beamed back at them, and Bucky tried his best to smile but knew it fell flat somewhat. He was just all _happy’d_ out.

Thankfully, he was saved by the train whistle giving the final departure warning and somehow found the energy to brighten up some. “Guess we’d better…”

“Of course,” his mother murmured, putting her arms around him and hugging him tightly to her. He thought he heard her sniffle before she breathed, “I love you so much, my darling. _So_ much.”

Sighing, he let himself bury his face in her shoulder for a minute—he could do that now that he was almost as tall as her. “I know. I love you too, Mom.”

When she pulled away, he frowned to see that her eyes were a bit misty. She hadn’t almost cried at the station before, not even when he and Steve went off to Hogwarts for the first time, but he supposed it must be different since they spent just about every waking moment as a family all summer. Smiling, he gave her a kiss on the cheek before his dad hugged him as well. Sarah pulled him into a tight embrace when she finished saying goodbye to Steve, then gave him a narrow-eyed look before pulling a box literally out of thin air.

He could smell the peanut butter without even needing to open it and threw his arms around her for an extra hug in gratitude.

Just as he was about to board the train, he knelt down to Becca’s level and kissed her forehead. “All right, squirt. I’ll see you when Quidditch starts, okay?”

She nodded silently, scuffing her shoe against the ground before practically throwing herself at him. He caught her and held her close as she whispered in his ear, “Will you write me letters?”

“Of course,” he immediately vowed. He wrote her anyway, but he would do it more often this year with everything going on. “I’ll even see if Steve will draw you some of his moving pictures. What do you think?”

“Really?” she asked, the little glimmer of excitement muffled into his shoulder.

“Really,” confirmed Bucky, giving her a squeeze before pushing her back. He held out his pinky and added, “Pinky swear?”

Giggling, Becca hooked her finger with his and nodded, and he kissed her one more time before straightening up and stepping into the carriage behind Steve. They weren’t a moment too soon: they had barely shut the door before the train was in motion, and they stood at the window waving at their families (and, unfortunately, the damn reporters) until the train rounded the corner and they were lost from view.

Bucky took a deep breath, already feeling the weight lifted from his shoulders. Winter pawed her way up into his face and nuzzled him happily, and he could instantly tell she felt exactly the same way.

“Long summer, huh?” asked Steve with a sad little smile. Bucky nodded, releasing the air from his lungs.

“Yeah. Long summer.”

Steve had already stowed his things in the same compartment as Bucky, so they made their way down the corridor as the train rocked back and forth, slipping past other students as they searched for their friends. By the time they made it to their seats, T’Challa had already beaten them there and looked up with a smile. Igorha was gnawing on a stuffed bird enthusiastically but looked up as the door slid open; Bucky plopped Winter down on the seat and let the two cats sniff each other in greeting.

“If it isn’t the famous—“ T’Challa began, but Bucky interrupted and glared between him and Steve suspiciously.

“Nuh-uh, did you two plan that?”

Eyes widening innocently, Steve put a hand to his chest. “Would I do something like that?”

“Yes,” confirmed Bucky flatly.

“He knows you well,” T’Challa chuckled, stroking his cat’s fur and unintentionally looking like a villain from a terrible eighties Muggle movie.

“Traitor.”

They laughed at the look on Steve’s face, and Bucky threw himself into the seat opposite T’Challa, running a hand through his hair. “How was your summer, _Luke_?”

Raising an eyebrow, T’Challa snarked back, “Nowhere near as eventful as yours, _James_.”

“Ugh, don’t even. If I never hear someone call me that again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Why doesn’t your mother just call you Bucky?”

“She said it’s a _force of habit_ ,” he responded, imitating her accent before scowling out the window at the trees moving rapidly past them. “I’m pretty sure she just doesn’t think it’s a good enough name for the Minister for Magic’s kid.”

“It was just fine for the Undersecretary,” scoffed Steve incredulously. When Bucky just shrugged, he inquired, “So how uptight was she all summer?”

Bucky pretended to consider the question for a moment, looking up at the ceiling with a puckered expression. “Hmm, on a scale of one to ten, I’d put her at _insanity_. We couldn’t set _one toe_ out of line because there were people taking our pictures everywhere we went. When she wasn’t talking about what she wanted to do as Minister, she was telling them pretty much our whole life story.”

Nodding, T’Challa told him, “I saw an article in the _Prophet_ about your potential upcoming Quidditch career and whether it would keep you from following in your mother’s footsteps.”

“You get the _Prophet_?” asked Bucky, momentarily distracted.

“When your family is in charge of a country, you get just about every newspaper known to man and then some,” he sighed in response, rolling his eyes for good measure. He’d told Steve toward the end of their first year that he was a prince since Bucky already knew and wherever _he_ was, Steve couldn’t be far behind; it had seemed to help him, having a couple of people to talk about his home life with.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get the feeling,” Bucky commiserated. “We’ve had owls all day and night with deliveries from pretty much everywhere in Europe and half of Asia just so my mom can keep up with current events. I don’t get it—they want to say Muggles aren’t as advanced as we are, but at least they can just look everything up on the internet.”

“We may be ahead,” observed Steve, “but you’ve got all the lousy traditional people holding us back, too.”

The air immediately turned heavy, a feeling that Bucky was all too familiar with these days. As popular as his mother’s ideas were, there were still a lot of people who thought doing things the old-fashioned way would be better and didn’t want anything to do with Muggles. In fact, they were calling for the exact opposite: a complete end to communication between Muggle and magical communities. They basically wanted the entire Wizarding world to be like Diagon Alley, where everyone even _lived_ hidden away from the Muggle communities. Bucky didn’t think he’d heard anything more stupid or unnecessary in his life, but it was a pretty widespread belief. Some wizards thought they were better while others were simply frightened that if Muggles knew about the Wizarding world, it would be the Salem Witch Trials all over again. They ignored the people who cited that there wouldn’t be mixed marriages if that were the case and clung to outdated historical references that bore no weight today, but there was no shortage of idiots out there willing to listen.

Plus, they’d even found someone to run for Minister to defend their interests: Alexander Pierce, the guy who had been saying his mom would plunge them back into the dark ages for two years now. Pierce wasn’t as big a proponent of the _complete_ separation of the two communities, but he was definitely a purist—Bucky had listened to _way_ too many of his mother’s rants about him over the last three months.

They sat in awkward silence for a minute or two, Bucky racking his brains to find a way to change the subject to something that didn’t involve every damn thing he was so tired of discussing, but thankfully Clint Barton and Sam Wilson came to save the day.

The door to their compartment slid open, but before Sam could step inside, Clint threw an arm out and stopped abruptly. “Wait, wait. We need to be on our _best behavior_ in the presence of royalty, Samuel.”

Bucky saw T’Challa stiffen slightly out of the corner of his eye, but Sam just grinned and looked straight at Bucky as he joined in, “You’re right. Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression in front of his Royal Highness _James_ of the Ministry monarchy.”

They burst out laughing when Bucky flipped them off, and after a moment T’Challa relaxed enough to join in. Bucky hated being the butt of that particular joke, but he supposed if it helped throw some of the attention away from the _real_ prince in the room, he could take one for the team.

“So, as the prince of the Barnes family administration,” he played along, straightening his posture and sticking his nose as high in the air as he could, “does that mean I’m in charge of our dorm?”

“You can try, asshole,” muttered Clint, sparing a glower for the cats curled up on the seat next to T’Challa and deliberately moving to sit beside Steve on the other side of the compartment instead.

 _Some things never change_ , Bucky observed with an internal sigh of contentment.

Sam just rolled his eyes and sat down in last empty seat, Winter immediately climbing into his lap while Igorha watched with stereotypical feline disinterest. Bucky remembered thinking T’Challa’s cat looked like a panther when they first met in the Magical Menagerie, and Igorha didn’t disappoint; she acted like a queen most of the time, and he had asked T’Challa once why he didn’t give her a name that meant “queen” instead of “warrior.” She carried herself more primly than Bucky’s _mother_ , and eyed new people with intense scrutiny. She was also a hell of a huntress; T’Challa was frequently trying not to complain about the dead rats he found all over his dormitory.

Where Igorha had only grown more regal, Winter was the exact opposite. She sought out whoever she thought was most likely to give her pets and cuddles, and she frequently abandoned toys just to snuggle up in Bucky’s arms with her nose wedged under his jaw like she’d done as a kitten. There were times, however, when Bucky was convinced that Sam was her favorite human, but it probably had to do with the fact that he’d taken to keeping cat treats in the pocket of his robes to sneak her when he _thought_ Bucky wasn’t looking. (He _was_.)

“So,” began Sam, “what’s it feel like, having a parent with the biggest name in the Wizarding world?”

“Feels like I would rather talk about Quidditch,” admitted Bucky, only half joking.

The others laughed and took the hint, shifting the conversation to what they had done with their summer instead. For the first time in months, Bucky was able to just sit back and enjoy the conversation.

 

***

 

“Come on, Buck-a-boo, you _know_ this is a good idea.”

“I _know_ , I just don’t _care_.”

“I’m offering your mother the crown jewel of her campaign, and you _don’t care_? Alert the presses, there’s dissension in the ranks!”

“Okay, I _care_ , but if it’s that important, send her an owl or something."

“Why do that when you’re standing _right here_.”

“Because believe it or not, Stark, I’m not my mom’s campaign manager.”

There had been plenty of times over the last two years that Bucky wanted to bang his head against a table as a direct result of something Tony Stark did, but this had to take the cake. They had barely made it inside the Great Hall before he was inundating Bucky with information about some super suit he’d made that would apparently give Muggles the same protection a Shield Charm and Stunning Spell would.

“It would completely revolutionize Muggle law enforcement!” he’d all but yelled in his excitement, waving his hands in the air. “Your mom would _love_ it—ooh, she could probably sell a ton of them.”

Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell him that if his mother was already facing opposition, the number of people who would join it if they heard about giving Muggles the means to do even the _tiniest_ bit of magic would probably be astronomical. As Steve said, most wizards felt free to choose his mother’s side because they didn’t _fear_ Muggles. This suit idea would change that.

But that was simple _logic_ , and Tony didn’t exactly run on logic. If Rhodey and Pepper were correct, he mostly ran on caffeine and sheer nerve.

Speaking of, Pepper appeared to have seen that Bucky was just about at his wits’ end with the conversation and made a beeline for them. She was a Ravenclaw prefect, not Slytherin, but she still had _some_ power over Tony. (Besides, she was also two years his senior and Bucky was almost _positive_ that Tony had had a crush on her since they’d met, so she would stand a much better chance in reining him in than Hope Pym, the Slytherin prefect.)

“Tony,” Pepper sighed in the same put-upon way she usually used when dealing with him. “Do you think you could let him have one night before you barrage him with idiocy?”

Tony groaned, putting a hand over his heart as though he’d been mortally wounded. “Pep, you suck all the fun out of everything. And the only idiocy I see around here is Barton,“ who promptly flipped him the bird, “so I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, as _important_ as I’m sure this all is, a couple of second years are trying to work out how to mix thermodynamics and biology, so…”

“Lemme guess, Strange and Killian?” Tony shook his head before shooting Bucky a pitying look. “Excuse me. I’m sure _they_ will appreciate my assistance.”

“You’re a real humanitarian, Stark,” deadpanned Bucky, but Tony ignored him as he spun around and made his way to the two prodigies hunched over a book at the Ravenclaw table, whispering to each other animatedly. Rolling his eyes, Bucky tried to inject as much gratitude as he could into his tone when he told Pepper, “Thanks for that.”

She smiled kindly and waved him off. “No problem. He gets excited, but boundaries are still…”

“Nonexistent?”

“I was going for difficult, but yeah, we can go with that.” She rolled her eyes, but he could see the fond look in them as she glanced at Tony before excusing herself to return to her own table.

Once she was gone, Sam shrugged and nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Gotta admit, man, the idea wasn’t a bad one.”

“No,” admitted Bucky grudgingly, staring down at his empty gold plate. “But it’s not a _good_ one either.”

“Too much margin for error,” agreed T’Challa from where he had been listening at the Slytherin table next to them. Sam frowned.

“It’s really not a big deal, though. Shield Charms and Stunning Spells? It’s not _basic_ magic, but it’s not rocket science or _thermodynamics_ ,” he mocked with a smirk.

T’Challa shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like much to us, but hand that power to someone who has never done magic in their life? It is a recipe for disaster.”

“Besides,” added Bucky, “just try telling everyone we’re gonna give what are basically magical weapons to Muggles and watch them all freak the hell out.”

“Those Hydra clowns would be all over it,” murmured Clint, and Bucky glanced around to make sure they weren’t overheard.

 _No one_ mentioned Hydra if they could get away with it. No one really even knew who they were, but everyone was scared of them anyway. From what his mother had managed to give away throughout the campaign, Bucky surmised that they were a purist group out to use whatever means necessary to make sure Muggles and wizards stayed separate. If that meant killing, they were just fine with it, although there had only been one more incident when Stern put the Barnes Initiative back up on the docket one final time a year ago. After that, he’d decided it just wasn’t worth the casualties and set the bill aside, to his mother’s endless aggravation. The culprits still hadn’t been found, none of the group’s members had been captured, and they vanished like ghosts into the wind. A lot of people thought Stern could have done more to find them, but he insisted that every option had been exhausted. It left a lingering terror over the Wizarding world that eventually went dormant, but no one wanted to bring them up and remind everyone that they were still _out there_ somewhere.

Peggy saved them from their distraught silence by plopping herself down next to T’Challa and complaining, “You will never guess what new name Tony has come up with for Steve.”

This had become one of their favorite games: figuring out just how many of Steve’s buttons Tony could push before the former eventually hauled off and hit him. So far, it hadn’t happened yet, but it was really only a matter of time.

“Give us a hint,” Sam sighed, unable to hide his amusement, “was it about his size or the whole _truth, honor, patriotism_ thing?”

Snorting, Peggy indicated, “The second one.”

“Oh, these are always my favorites.”

“Then you’ll love this one.” She appeared to be trying to hide her smile out of loyalty to Steve, but this had been going on too long for them not to get a kick out of it. “He has officially been dubbed _Captain Tight-arse._ ”

They all stared at each other with wide eyes for an immeasurable moment before laughing loudly, drawing the gaze of most of the students surrounding them. Bucky nearly fell off the bench imagining Steve’s expression when he heard _that_ one.

“Did Steve punch him?” wheezed Clint through his mirth. “ _Please_ tell me he punched him.”

Managing to calm herself enough to speak again, Peggy denied, “No, but I managed to get there just in time to keep him from _strangling_ him.”

“Aw, man, you should’ve let him.” The dreamy expression on Clint’s face as he imagined it had them all guffawing again, and it was a good thing the doors opened at that moment to admit the new first years or they would have had to explain to the professors why they were causing such a scene.

Bucky had to wonder sometimes if Tony would ever learn, but part of him hoped he never did. The love-hate (or, to put it more realistically, begrudging respect-hate) relationship Tony had cultivated with Steve was a small part of what made returning to Hogwarts feel like coming home.

As he watched the first years queue up at the front of the room, nervously eyeing the hat while Professor May explained what was going to happen, he couldn’t help feeling that in spite of the rough start, this was going to be another great year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citing: The line about attention as an "occupational hazard of being a Barnes" is a reference to the show "Political Animals." There will be more in later chapters.


	10. The Article

The peace lasted almost a whole month. Bucky basked in the contentment of not having people with cameras and agendas hounding his every step, putting the campaign out of his mind for the most part and focusing on school. Well, okay, every morning he still skimmed through the _Daily Prophet_ to see what was happening with his family and he fended off the occasional sales pitch from Tony, but _otherwise_ he was free to just focus on school like everyone else. He’d made the Quidditch team again, and Steve had just barely squeaked by and landed himself a spot on the Gryffindor team as a Chaser. (It wasn’t that he was _amazing_ , much as Bucky hated to admit it, but there simply weren’t very many good candidates. Steve caught every pass, albeit sloppily in some cases, and they agreed to practice on the weekends to get Steve in fighting form for the first game in November.)

Classes were the same as usual, although third years got to pick two extra subjects to add to their repertoire. Bucky had had a difficult time deciding but eventually chose Divination (due to Professor Heimdall being his favorite professor more than an interest in the subject) and Care of Magical Creatures. Steve took the latter with him, as did Sam, Clint, and T’Challa, but his second course was Ancient Runes. Apparently that was something that would come in handy to be an Auror, he’d explained sheepishly when he told Bucky. Sam had also signed up for that class, but Clint and T’Challa were with Bucky in Divination, the latter because he was fascinated by the subject and the former because he thought it would be enjoyable to make fun of—which, much as Bucky loved Heimdall’s Astronomy class, it really was.

So he entered the familiar pattern of routine: classes and Quidditch practice during the week, homework and hanging out with his friends on the weekends. The handful of letters from the _Daily Prophet_ and other papers that came with the post every day asking for statements were promptly thrown out—or burned depending on his mood—and he ignored both the innocent questions and the sneering disapproval of some of his classmates with regards to his mother’s policies. As far as Bucky was concerned, none of that existed at Hogwarts. It was his safe space, and he was more determined than ever to keep it that way.

Which was probably why when things went to shit, his friends did everything they could to keep him from finding out.

Thursdays were always Bucky’s busiest day of the week: double Potions in the morning, Divination after lunch, and then Charms before Quidditch practice and dinner. Thursdays were the nights where Winter was clingy when he eventually dragged himself to the common room and collapsed on the couch if he couldn’t make it all the way to the dormitory.

Thursdays were the days he really didn’t have time for this shit.

Bucky was yawning as he entered the Great Hall, scanning the room quickly before spotting his friends at the Gryffindor table and shuffling over to join them. Usually he went to breakfast with Sam, but the latter had already been gone when Bucky woke; Clint was still asleep, but then it was his usual habit to miss most of breakfast and show up late to their first class with a wedge of toast hanging out of his mouth. As he got closer, he saw that their heads were bent low over the table, and he could see enough of Sam and Peggy’s faces to know that whatever they were looking at wasn’t going to be good.

Thor noticed his approach first and jabbed Steve with his elbow, whispering frantically. Steve glanced up in his direction, eyes wide, before sweeping something under the table where they probably thought they were slick enough to keep Bucky from noticing.

“Good morning,” Peggy greeted him cheerfully. That in itself was enough to tell him something was up.

“Hey,” he replied slowly, eyes shifting between each of them suspiciously. Most of them didn’t look like there was anything amiss, but then there was Steve. He had always been a pretty shitty liar; he would either start stuttering or turn pink as if he was struggling to literally hold the truth inside.

Right now, his face was bright red.

“Okay, spill,” ordered Bucky, plopping down right beside him and giving him his best _Give It Up, Rogers_ glare.

Steve just looked at him and then glanced around the group, his face impossibly turning a shade darker. “Spill what?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky pulled a plate of eggs closer and muttered, “Whatever it is you think you’re hiding that you’re _not_.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Well, that’s true,” he retorted sarcastically, frowning. “Seriously, just spit it out.”

“Buck, honestly, I—“

“Steve, whatever it is, you’re not being subtle. You can’t lie for shit, which you _know_ , and none of the rest of you,” he waved his fork at them all in turn, “look as innocent as you think either. So what were you guys just looking at and why don’t you want me to know?”

_Yeah, Thursdays: not the day for this shit._

The others appeared to be holding a silent conversation he wasn’t privy to for a minute, but T’Challa was the one who eventually answered him, if it could be called an answer.

“Maybe it would be better if we talk about it after classes,” he recommended diplomatically. That just made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up: how bad _was_ it?

“Or maybe you could just tell me _now_ ,” countered Bucky nervously.

Another moment of silence, and then, surprisingly, Thor was the first to break. “Just show him,” he muttered, expression grim.

Steve glanced at Bucky, biting his lower lip and surveying him closely before pulling a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ out from under the table. His hands were shaking slightly as he handed it over, but from the expression on his face, it was more out of anger than nerves.

Frowning, Bucky took the paper from him as though it might explode at any second. Based on the expressions his friends were wearing, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it did. He unfolded it carefully and suddenly understood when he read the headline right smack dab in the middle of the front page: “MINISTER CANDIDATE’S EMBARRASSING SECRET – THE TRUTH ABOUT THE UNDERSECRETARY’S SON, by Christine Everhart.”

“What the _fuck_?” Bucky whispered, blinking rapidly as if the letters would rearrange themselves. They didn’t, though, seeming to smirk contemptuously up at him as he stared down in horror. He pushed everything aside to lay the paper flat on the table, hands quivering as he began to read:

> _If there’s one thing everyone knows, it’s that a candidate for Minister for Magic is under intense scrutiny all the time. They need to project an air of perfection: perfect attire, perfect behavior, and a perfect record. A great deal of Undersecretary Winifred Barnes’s popularity has been tied to her apparent accomplishment of all three, and one has to wonder—is she a little_ too _perfect?_
> 
> _This reporter made it her mission to find out. After uncovering decades of information on the potential future Minister, it seemed that everything was on the level. She has always been the champion of wizard-Muggle relations she’s frequently claimed to be, even going so far as to marry a Muggle and conceive two consequently half-blood children with him. She has spearheaded legislation aimed at protecting Muggles from wizards who can get a little overzealous using magic in public, and she even funded a Ministry-sanctioned program to help Squibs adapt to the Muggle world they would otherwise know nothing about. Two years ago, Undersecretary Barnes was the leading proponent of a bill that used her name, the Barnes Initiative, to bring our community closer with that of the Muggles to ensure the “mutual development of both sides in all facets of life.”_
> 
> _Again, there is not a single flaw in her_ political _record. Her_ familial _record, however, is another story._
> 
> _Undersecretary Barnes spent much of this past summer campaigning throughout the United Kingdom and Europe with her family, which at first glance seems a wholesome and virtuous one. George Barnes, a Muggle who formerly served in the United States Army, is a security contractor who builds alarm systems for Muggle buildings. (These are similar to Detection Charms but less efficient.) Thirteen-year-old James and eight-year-old Rebecca were dressed impeccably and always greeted press, politicians, and constituents alike with gracious smiles and mature answers to innumerable questions. On the surface, they make the perfect family to represent the Ministry of Magic._
> 
> _Underneath the surface, however, not all is as it seems. James Barnes, who goes by the nickname “Bucky” (allegedly from his middle name “Buchanan”), just entered his third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the first two haven’t exactly been the smoothest._
> 
> _An anonymous source inside Hogwarts says that James makes it a point to befriend students of all kinds, a show of acceptance that is befitting a son brought up by Undersecretary Barnes. However, James has been involved in numerous fights, including some that have become quite physically violent. According to the source, one of these altercations left another student in the infirmary. While many students would be kicked out for Muggle or magical fighting, James was given a reprieve. When asked if the reason was due to his mother’s standing at the Ministry of Magic, Headmaster Fury refused to comment. You can make of that what you will._
> 
> _In spite of his mother’s obvious intelligence and bravery in the face of the ordeals she has come up against not only during her current campaign, but in the years preceding it as well, James’s grades aren’t spectacular. He is said to be an average student who manages to pass his classes, but he is hardly the brightest of his year. Similarly, his prowess on the Quidditch team is mentioned to be somewhat overrated in the press, which leads an observer to wonder—how was the apparent talent of the mother so very clearly not passed on to her son?_
> 
> _Many would say that this doesn’t come as much of a shock. After all, young James was sorted into Hufflepuff house in his first year at Hogwarts, a house not quite known for turning out great wizards. His mother, a former Gryffindor, graduated with highest academic honors and has been a maverick throughout her professional life, bringing prestige to her house’s name. It makes sense, then, that a violently unstable boy in academic trouble with little talent on the Quidditch pitch would be sorted into what many call the “leftover” house._
> 
> _What, you may ask, does all of this have to do with Undersecretary Barnes’s viability as a candidate for Minister? Her record is, of course, unblemished, but there is a deeper mystery beneath the pomp and circumstance. Undersecretary Barnes, despite campaigning together with her family, has said plenty about their background while cleverly not giving any personal information about her husband or either of her children. When asked for specifics about them, she skirts the question and turns the attention of her audience back to the politics. Given the revelations about her son, this begs certain questions: What is she hiding? How has the apple fallen so far from the tree? And, perhaps most importantly, can we trust someone who cannot responsibly raise her own son to rule as Minister for Magic?_
> 
> _For more about Barnes’s platform – page 11_
> 
> _For more about Barnes’s summer campaign – page 12_
> 
> _For more about the upcoming election – page 13_

 

By the time he reached the end of the article, Bucky could hardly see through the tears that hazed over the front of his eyes. His breath came hard and fast, and for a moment he thought this might be what it felt like to have an asthma attack.

How could someone write this? And _where_ had they gotten that information? His grades were _just fine_ in all of his classes (except Transfiguration, which had taken a turn for the _obscenely_ difficult, but he was still _passing_!), and Phillips had grudgingly told him last term that he hadn’t seen a Beater with an eye or aim like his in years. The only fights he got into were to help Steve, and even those had become so few and far between that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten involved. The only person he remembered putting in the hospital wing was Hodge—two _years_ ago—and that coward had only been there ten minutes while Bucky was in Fury’s office.

_And since when is Hufflepuff a house for “leftovers?”_

It simultaneously seemed like the Great Hall had both gone silent and exploded into noise with everyone talking—about _him_ —and he numbly stood up from the table. He thought maybe his friends tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t hear their voices through the static in his head. His whole body was achingly numb as he walked out the doors and down the corridor back toward the common room. When he stood in front of the familiar barrels, he could only stare blankly at them, unable to remember how to get back inside or _care_ that he couldn’t.

After an eternity of gawping as if that would _change anything_ , a weight settled on his shoulders and turned him around, pushing gently until he was sitting on the cold stone floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. Bucky heard someone talking to him but couldn’t quite make out the words, gazing up to see Sam with Steve and T’Challa standing far enough behind him to give them some space. Sam was the one talking; the only thing Bucky could understand was the soothing monotone of his voice. It took another few minutes for him to come back to himself and actually _hear_ him.

“—with me? It’s gonna be okay, Bucky. It’s gonna be all right, just try to breathe, okay?”

Bucky obediently sucked in a wavering breath, self-awareness blooming as gradually as if a troll had thrown him back into place. He hadn’t been conscious of the fact that his heart was racing and his breathing was harsh and ragged; he was only just beginning to feel the wet tracks of tears trailing uncontrollably down his cheeks.

“You with us, man?” prodded Sam gently, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.

Bucky just barely managed to nod, opening and closing his mouth a few times like a fish until he could get his vocal chords working again. When he did, his voice was nearly inaudible to his own ears as he whispered brokenly, “Why would they _do_ this?”

Steve looked like his heart was breaking where he was standing behind Sam’s shoulder, and T’Challa gazed steadily down at the floor with the saddest expression Bucky had ever seen.

Sam could only shake his head and whisper back, “I don’t know, man. People suck.”

“Most of it’s not even _true_.” Now that Bucky had found his voice, cracked and tiny as it was, he couldn’t stop himself. “I-I-I-I’m _smart_ , I _a-am_ …”

“Of course you are,” Sam agreed, nodding emphatically. “We all know that. And you’re damn good at Quidditch—just ask Phillips. He’s not one to be nice about shit like that either.”

Bucky’s head bobbed up and down, not quite nodding but more like he just couldn’t hold it up. “’N we’re not… We’re not _leftovers_ …” he breathed, sniffling.

“Hell no we’re not.” Sam’s expression turned disgusted. “Plenty of good witches and wizards came outta Hufflepuff. There are whole books about ‘em in the library.”

“Then why did they write that?” demanded Bucky, bordering on hysterical as he started sobbing in earnest. His shoulders shook and his head bounced painfully off the stone wall behind him, but he could barely feel any of that when it seemed like his lungs were being ripped out of his chest by a kelpie.

He wasn’t sure if Sam tried to say anything else, but if he did, it didn’t take long for him to give up. Arms wrapped around him a few seconds later, and he clung on like he might _actually_ fall into a real pit of despair while someone else ran a hand comfortingly up and down his back. In the back of his mind, he felt vaguely grateful that no one tried to talk. There really wasn’t anything left to say.

 

***

 

They were late to Potions. Bucky attempted to keep himself from wondering if Erskine didn’t berate them because he was being nice or because he’d seen the article. The entire class, Bucky knew his eyes were red and puffy, and they itched terribly as he tried and failed to focus on taking notes. Eventually he gave up and just stared in the general direction of the board, his quill drooping over his paper. Steve, at some point, pulled Bucky’s notebook toward him and began furiously scribbling two sets of notes instead of just his own. Bucky tried to find the words to thank him, but nothing was coming out.

At lunch, he just pushed the food his friends served him around his plate; he didn’t feel hungry, and when he tried to eat, everything tasted like cardboard. The rest of his classes passed in a blur, and he knew it was because of that fucking article that both Professors Heimdall _and_ Stark didn’t try to give him shit for not paying attention or doing anything. Even Phillips canceled Quidditch practice, claiming that he had a meeting despite how his eyes seemed to linger overlong on Bucky in the locker room.

He didn’t want any special treatment— _“Headmaster Fury refused to comment. You can make of that what you will.”_ —but he couldn’t deny that he was relieved either. He ignored the way Clint and Dum Dum (whose real name was Tim Dugan, a fourth year and the other Beater on the Hufflepuff team) watched him like a hawk as they left the locker room and headed back into the castle. The air was cold outside and the sky was already overcast as fall came early this year, the dreary setting doing absolutely nothing to help Bucky’s mood.

They tried to make conversation on the way back, but Bucky couldn’t find the energy to join in. When they made it into the entrance hall, he split off from the others, quietly muttering that he wasn’t hungry when they attempted to get him to come to dinner. They made a few aborted attempts to argue before he left them in front of the Great Hall, retreating to Hufflepuff territory.

There was no one in the common room when he arrived except Winter, who had gotten more adventurous in the last year and would now come out to laze in front of the fire until Bucky’s classes finished for the day. She spotted him the moment he entered the room and was up like a shot, standing up on her hind legs to paw at his knees in the universal language for _Pick Me Up._

Feeling the wall of numbness he’d hidden behind all day beginning to crack, Bucky scooped her up in his arms and dashed into his dormitory, somehow managing to close the door behind him before he dissolved into tears again. He wasn’t sure how he made it to his bed, but the soft cloth of his quilt underneath him and Winter licking at his face and hands were distantly comforting as he cried all the tears he had in him.

After an age, he was left feeling like a pumpkin on Halloween: scooped out and carved up until there was nothing left but the façade. Utterly exhausted, he just barely managed to change into his pajamas and slip into bed. Winter was never more than a foot away from him the whole time; she nuzzled up against his face repeatedly in a fruitless attempt to cheer him up.

Smiling sadly, he whispered, “Why can’t people be as good as you, huh?”

In the uncanny way she always had of understanding what he was saying, Winter mewed gloomily and licked a stripe up his nose. Bucky wrapped an arm around her to pull her close, and the cat snuggled into his chest with her head right up under his chin. It wasn’t the same as her usual spot on his pillow, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Sleep didn’t come easy, but he closed his eyes and pretended when he heard footsteps and the door opening to admit his two roommates immediately after. Clint and Sam were mostly quiet, only speaking in hushed voices every now and again.

If they noticed that his breathing wasn’t very even or that every now and then he sniffled into the silence, they were kind enough not to call him on it.

 

***

 

Bucky wasn’t exactly feeling better by the next morning, but he woke up with his stomach growling discontentedly at having skipped two meals the previous day, so he supposed he would have to do something about it. At least, he realized with a grim sense of satisfaction, it was Friday. That meant he could shut himself in his dormitory all weekend if he wanted and no one could tell him otherwise.

He hadn’t slept well that night, and he was out of bed long before both Sam and Clint. Winter woke up just long enough to lick at his face before curling into the warmth of his sheets and going right back to sleep. He didn’t have the heart to move her just to make the bed after she’d been his rock last night, so he just pulled the warm quilt closer around her before he turned to get dressed, frowning at the box sitting inside his wardrobe that certainly hadn’t been there the night before. His name was written on top in the familiar spirals of Sarah Rogers’s cursive; he knew without opening it that his favorite cookies and probably a letter of sympathy would be inside. The package must have come during dinner with the evening post, Sam and Clint bringing it back with them since Bucky wasn’t there to get it himself. He tore the paper and popped the lid to see at least two dozen assorted cookies and, sure enough, an envelope. He wasn’t certain he had the energy or wherewithal to read whatever it said right now, though, so he mentally vowed to open it that night and stuck the lot back in his wardrobe to finish dressing and head down to breakfast.

When he got there, only a few students were already up. Even the High Table was pretty empty for a weekday, and he glanced at the clock to see they had over an hour before classes started, which explained their absence. The couple of students he did see looked up at him as he walked past, whispering or giggling, and he clenched his teeth tightly. It was all he could do not to turn and look at them, keeping his back to the rest of the room as he lowered himself into a seat at the Hufflepuff table and reached for a bowl of oatmeal. He hadn’t felt warm—he hadn’t felt much of _anything_ —since breakfast the previous day, so hopefully it would make some headway into reminding his body it had some sensation.

Bucky wasn’t at the table long, staring at his breakfast more than eating it, before the bench shifted slightly to announce T’Challa’s arrival. Neither spoke for a few minutes, and Bucky was immensely grateful that T’Challa didn’t ask if he was okay. He really didn’t feel like lying.

There was, however, one thing he did _need_ to know despite it being the absolute last thing he _wanted_ to know.

“How bad is it?” he mumbled into his oatmeal, not bothering to look up at T’Challa. The latter was silent for a moment before he sighed deeply.

“Not many people seem like they read the article themselves,” he hedged, picking at a piece of toast.

Frowning, Bucky prompted him, “But…?”

“But…the ones who did are spreading it around.”

Bucky bobbed his head up and down a few times, forcing a spoonful down even though his stomach suddenly decided to roil. It was no surprise, really; nobody read the _Daily Prophet_ unless they were bored, a nerd, or had family that might be in it. Normal kids got their news from their parents and had the luxury of ignoring what rude reporters wrote for the purpose of ruining lives and getting attention.

_Wouldn’t that be nice…_

They fell silent, Bucky slowly finishing his bowl while T’Challa served himself breakfast. Their other friends trickled in after a while, though they didn’t break the stillness in a show of solidarity. It was a dark day indeed when Steve Rogers, outspoken defender of _everyone_ , just sat down and squeezed his shoulder quietly.

They were all just as subdued when classes started for the day, although Bucky only made it halfway through Defense Against the Dark Arts before the door opened and Peggy walked in to hand a slip of parchment to Professor May. May was just as disaffected as always as she read its contents, nodded briskly at Peggy, and declared, “Mr. Barnes, the headmaster’s office. Take your things.”

Eyebrows drawn in confusion, Bucky shared a puzzled glance with Steve before loading his books back into his schoolbag and slinging it over his shoulder. He wasn’t exactly ungrateful, to be honest; watching Professor May poke and prod at a grindylow in a tank didn’t really make for an interesting lesson. Still, he hadn’t been to Fury’s office since his first year, and he really didn’t think he could take much more being piled on top of him right now.

They almost made it to the end of the corridor before Peggy quietly told him, “Just so you know, we all realize that woman’s a lying wench. For the record.”

That shocked a smile out of Bucky. “Thanks, Peg.”

“Don’t you start believing it either, James Barnes,” she continued, her voice growing stronger with each step. “You’re worth more than that. Politics is really just another word for a bunch of filthy scoundrels looking to make a name for themselves no matter who they have to step on.”

“She’s a reporter, not a politician,” observed Bucky wryly, but Peggy waved him off.

“A reporter writing about politics—it’s the same thing. Disgusting twat.”

She continued to grumble under her breath about _demon bitches out for blood_ , so Bucky let her vent for a bit until they got to the gargoyle outside Fury’s office. At that point she took a deep breath, visibly gathered herself, and said, “Ezekiel.”

The gargoyle immediately moved, and they hopped on the spiral staircase as it took them up to the same wooden door he’d seen last time. Peggy knocked twice before Fury’s voice called for them to enter, but she didn’t come inside with him, offering a reassuring smile as she disappeared back down the steps.

Hesitantly, Bucky walked inside and shut the door behind him, expecting Fury to say something and therefore entirely shocked to hear his _mother’s_ voice instead. He spun around to see her towering like a force of nature before Fury’s desk, the headmaster watching dispassionately from his seat. Bucky’s dad was standing off to the side watching the proceedings silently, his face grave.

_This week just keeps getting better and better_ , Bucky sighed to himself as he strode past the tables of trinkets and bobbles toward them.

No one paid him any mind, probably due to the fact that his mother was quite literally _yelling in Headmaster Nicholas J. Fury’s face_ as if she wasn’t scared of him at all. Bucky had always known his mom had balls—his dad grumbled about it frequently—but this was a pretty impressive sight.

“No one should have access to his educational records until he graduates and takes those credentials to find work, Fury, especially some daft muppet who is just out for a story,” she was ranting, unaware that her son had entered the room. “And even if they _did_ , look at these boldfaced lies! His grades are higher than average, and he’s a good student; the fighting stopped, or at least we stopped hearing about it. And suddenly some woman is saying that he’s _violently unstable_ and in _academic trouble_ based on information acquired from _this school_?”

Bucky flinched, not needing his mom to repeat those bits when they constantly whirled around the inside of his head anyway.

“Madam Undersecretary, I can assure you that no professor at this school would release information about a student to reporters,” Fury interrupted her mid-rant, leaning forward with his hands folded on the desk in front of him. “Especially not to tell lies about that.”

“Then where did they come from?” she growled harshly, glaring down at him. “They said it was an insider at Hogwarts, and when my office inquired who, we were told it was someone of reliable character and position.”

Fury raised an eyebrow and sardonically pointed out. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but reporters have been known to lie before.”

The room seemed to drop in temperature as his mother’s rage intensified, but Fury didn’t give her the chance to say anything else before he pressed on.

“Now, there’s no telling where that information came from. All I can say is that I _know_ none of _my_ staff would be stupid enough to put their head on the chopping block all to sell a false story. There are also no professors who dislike your son enough to do this either. Like you said, his grades are good and he’s polite. His professors _and_ his peers get along with him when he’s not fighting Rogers’s battles. There is not _one member_ of this staff I believe capable of telling this reporter anything like that.”

“So you’re saying it could be a student,” cut in Bucky’s dad with a sigh, already knowing where that would go.

Fury shrugged a black-clad shoulder and sat back in his seat again. “You get a parent who doesn’t want the Undersecretary to become Minister, asks their kid if they know your son…” He jerked his head to the side in a sarcastic half-nod. “Sounds like good stuff to send a reporter and make a few bucks.”

“Then you should be—“

“I should be _what_ , Madam Undersecretary?” interjected Fury, his eyes flashing dangerously. He’d been pretty patient up to now, more than he would be with a student, but it looked like he’d finally reached his limit. “I should be monitoring all communication between students and their parents? I should be telling students they can’t write home anymore? You can hang that shit up right now.” He got to his feet, towering over Bucky’s mother, and glared straight into her eyes. “Now I’m going to do everything I can to make sure no more information gets leaked out about your son, but I’m not going to turn this school into a prison just to make sure some kids who don’t like him can’t open their fat traps. Your boy’s tough but politics are tougher—if he can’t handle it, you should’ve thought about that before you ran.”

Bucky watched his mother sputter furiously, trying and failing to find something to come back with. His dad, knowing neither of them was likely to back down, stepped up beside her and put an arm around her waist. When he looked up at Fury, his expression was grateful instead of gratuitously pissed.

“We understand, Professor. This really hasn’t put you in a great position either,” he asserted apologetically, casting a sidelong glance at his indignant wife. Bucky assumed it was probably to keep her from talking and making things worse. “Anything you _can_ do would be greatly appreciated.”

Fury was silent for a minute, his eye shifting between Bucky’s parents a few times before he nodded tersely and stepped out from behind his desk.

“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any promises. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting with my staff to make sure no one takes it upon themselves to expound on this already impressive pile of bullshit by trying to help set the record straight. You three can have the room until I get back—I have a feeling you’ve got plenty to talk about,” he added under his breath as he strode right past Bucky’s parents, who only at that moment realized he was even in the room. Fury stopped just long enough to pat Bucky on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of kindness before sweeping out of the office, leaving silence in his wake.

No one said anything for a while, the weight of everything that had plagued Bucky for going on two days now hanging in the air until it was almost a tangible thing. He wasn’t even sure how to address what had happened without sounding either whiney or furious, neither of which appealed to him, and he figured it would be better for his parents to make the first move anyway. His father appeared to be of the same mind, although he stared down at Bucky’s mother with a tight expression like he was waiting for her to speak first—which didn’t seem like it was going to happen anytime soon. For the first time _ever_ , Bucky was seeing his mom at a loss for words, and for some reason that more than anything else pushed him to speak as a tiny spark of something came to life in his chest.

“So when did you see it?”

His mom heaved a sigh, seeming to sense that she was the one who would have to answer, and replied, “Yesterday morning.”

Nodding slowly, Bucky felt that little spark grow as he shrugged sarcastically. “Didn’t think to write or anything, huh?”

“Darling,” she whispered, stepping forward as her face fell. “We _meant_ to, it’s just—“

“I know, you’re busy,” interrupted Bucky, waving a hand flippantly. “Got a campaign to run. Had to make sure your numbers were still good and all.”

The spark was growing into a blaze, and it was big enough now that Bucky could identify it: his profound sadness had finally given way to all-encompassing, poisonous _rage_.

“Baby, you know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms over his chest. “I mean, that’s a pretty _embarrassing_ story, right? I don’t think it’s enough to make you _lose_ , but you probably had to be _sure_.”

His mom straightened to her full height, but for once it didn’t intimidate him. The woman standing in front of him was also the reason he’d been humiliated in front of millions of people all around the world, so _excuse him_ for not really feeling like beating around the bush.

“James,” she began firmly with a pinched expression, “I understand you’re upset, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to ta—“

Bucky cut her off, not wanting to hear the _obedient son_ bullshit. “You wanna know who _did_ find the time to write? _Sarah_. _Steve’s_ fucking mom could write me but _you_ couldn’t!”

“That’s enough, James!”

“I was sitting here _freaking out_ while you were busy looking for who was trying to tank your campaign!” he continued over top of her. “Don’t tell me it’s not like that—you _just_ told Fury _right now_!”

“Enough!” his mom practically yelled, furious at his outburst and stunning him into silence. She took a deep breath and, in a tone of forced calm, recommenced, “I was trying to find out where it came from so that we could protect _you_. If one of your teachers was talking to the press, I wanted to make sure we put an end to it before they did anything else to _you_ than they already had.”

“What about what they already _did_ , Mom? That’s not going anywhere.”

She huffed, appearing more put out with the situation than with him now. “No, it isn’t, and there’s unfortunately nothing we can do about that besides minimize the damage.”

Frowning, Bucky echoed numbly, “Minimize the damage?”

“Yes. There’s no taking the story back. No amount of telling them that it was all lies would convince them unless we provide full access to your school record, and retracting the statement would just make it look like they were pressured into it anyway at this point, which makes matters worse. Fury will impress upon your professors that not one word about you is to be mentioned to anyone outside of this school, but there’s nothing we can do about other students, so you’ll need to keep a low profile until everything calms down after the election in January. Anyone with a brain in their head and a lick of sense will know that the article blows everything _way_ out of proportion, so the story should just fizzle out on its own over time so long as nothing gets added to it.”

Bucky could do nothing more than gape as his mother rambled, sounding more like she was talking to herself rather than him anymore. In the blink of an eye, the woman standing there went from his _mother_ to Undersecretary-Slash-Possible-Future-Minister Barnes. It was the first time he could remember feeling disgusted with either of his parents.

And just like that, Bucky erupted.

“I don’t _care_ about your _stupid_ voters!” he yelled. His mom jumped slightly, snapping out of her monologue with a look of utter shock crossing her face. “I don’t care if they believe it or not—I don’t care if they vote for you or not! _Everyone I know read that story_! All my teachers read it; all my _friends_ read it before _I_ did! They tried to hide the paper so I couldn’t see, but they’re all shitty fucking liars. It doesn’t matter that they know it’s not true—it’s still fucking _humiliating_ that they saw that at all! But they don’t _mean_ anything because they’re not old enough to vote, I forgot.”

“James…” she breathed, her expression turning horrified as she shook her head. But Bucky was on a roll, some impetus driving him forward that he could neither identify nor understand right now.

“People were _laughing_ at me at breakfast this morning! Phillips canceled Quidditch practice yesterday because he felt _sorry_ for me. My friends have been trying to cheer me up, but every time I see them I see how bad _they_ feel for me too! I can’t leave my dorm without wondering if someone’s treating me different because they pity me or just because they’re weird today. But _your voters_ will know it’s all crap, so that should make it all better. I just need to keep a _low profile_ so I don’t make you look worse or make them change their minds and think it might be true—that I really am a worthless, stupid sack of shit they couldn’t even sort into a _good_ house.”

He wasn’t sure when the hot, angry tears began to fall, but he felt them as he raged on, “Keeping a _low profile_ will make it better? _How_?! I didn’t do this—this isn’t my fault! I didn’t do _anything_ , it’s not _my fault, it’s not my fault_ —“

His dad’s arms magically appeared around him and Bucky clung onto him automatically, sobbing into his shoulder as he lost all control of himself. He distantly wondered how long he would be able to stay on his feet when his legs felt like they were made of jelly, but his dad seemed to anticipate it and held on even tighter, rocking him back and forth without saying a word. Maybe it was because he was a guy too, but his dad always understood what he was feeling, and right now he knew that there were no words to help. There was absolutely nothing either of his parents could say, especially his mother, that would make any of this all right. So it didn’t matter that he thought he’d cried all the tears he had left into Winter’s fur last night or that he’d yelled and cursed at his mom (which he’d never done before and, while freeing, would probably land him in a whole lot of trouble). It still felt like his world was shattering as he bawled into his dad’s shirt.

After an eternity, he felt another pair of arms join his father’s and his mother’s voice whispered in his ear, apologies instead of platitudes. She didn’t tell him it would be okay, and he was glad. She _did_ tell him she’d do everything she could to make sure it never happened again, and he was glad for that too.


	11. Grieving the Lost

“Dreams are a setting with unlimited possibility. They can help us sort through the problems our waking selves have not yet conquered; they can allow us to experience things that we would otherwise be unable or unwilling to. But more than that, so many dreams are premonitions to those who know how to read the signs.”

“ _There_ it is!” whispered Clint with an excited grin.

Bucky rolled his eyes, turning his attention back down to his notebook as Professor Heimdall strode past their table and continued to explain the principles of dream predictions. Clint loved Divination purely to make fun of it, and he didn’t believe a lick of what they learned about. When they started reading tea leaves, he would make up the most fanciful, extraordinary predictions he could think of while Heimdall looked on and nodded. Bucky was almost positive the man was just humoring his friend, knowing that he found it all to be a joke, when he called Clint up for a palm reading at the start of their next unit.

What he told Clint had been soft enough that no one else heard, but Bucky could honestly say he’d never seen Clint turn that shade of green, not even when he’d eaten twice his weight at the Halloween feast the previous year and been sick all night as a result.

As soon as Heimdall was a reasonable distance away, T’Challa glanced up from his notes with a marginally irritated glower on his face.

“Why do you take this class if you think it’s stupid?” he breathed, but Bucky shushed them with a finger to his lips as Heimdall explained their assignment. He didn’t want to say that he’d been _paranoid_ about his grades in the last few weeks since the article had run in the _Prophet_ , but he was possibly being more careful to pay attention and had maybe doubled (or tripled) down on his efforts.

“Many times, it is difficult to remember your dreams, especially as time passes after waking. That is why your project for the next two weeks may be difficult for some of you, but I expect that you will put in some effort,” Heimdall warned, looking around at all of them before he continued. “From now until the second week of November, you will be keeping a dream journal. You will describe the setting and events of each dream, whether you believe it was a dream to predict or to resolve conflict, and what you interpret it to mean. I will be checking your journals every day we have class, so do not fall behind. At the end of these two weeks, you will make a comprehensive analysis of your dreams. Now, we will start with last night, and I will give you time to work on this in class. Think about what dreams you had and record as much as you can remember on a length of parchment. I will come around should any of you require my assistance.”

Even if Divination was admittedly a little sketchy in Bucky’s opinion, he usually liked the class well enough and found it fascinating to think that people spent their whole lives relying on things like this when they frequently either misread signs or were incorrect altogether. Regardless, he just barely managed to keep from groaning aloud at this assignment and let his head hang low over the parchment with a sigh. His dreams were always weird, and they weren’t things he told anyone else about. Hell, it had been _years_ since he’d told his parents what he dreamt about when he had night terrors as a child, and now he was expected to record it all and share it with a _professor_?

_Fuck that._

T’Challa appeared to have the same level of enthusiasm for their assignment as Bucky—but Clint, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had just come early. He dug out his parchment with fervor and a grin that spanned most of his face. “Alright, guys,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s do this shit.”

Bucky exchanged a cautious glance with T’Challa. _This won’t end well._

They spent most of class working on their journals, Heimdall stopping at each table to glance over their writing and either commend their efforts or prompt them gently to add more detail. More than once, he told the class not to be afraid of judgment as they recorded the facts of their dreams on the paper, and that even the most subjectively embarrassing minutiae could be objectively important. Bucky had a hard time believing that, but he tried as best he could to put together an account of his dreams last night sans some of the more specific information. (He’d been cold, alone in the dormitory, and there had been something moving in the shadows. He didn’t say what it looked like or the words it said—that was between him and the lamppost.)

Clint’s “dream” was, to put it bluntly, an absolute fucking mess.

“’I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and in the valley below was a sea of puppies, but all the puppies had vampire teeth. When I tried to get a closer look, they all disappeared and I was in a Muggle ball pit instead, but as soon as I dove underneath it turned into water and I was drowning until one of the vampire puppies saved me. They took me back to their colony and I met their leader, who declared me to be a god. They worshipped me and made ritual blood sacrifices of cats to praise me. They tried to sacrifice Bucky’s cat, Winter, but when I told them to stop, they said I was a false deity and burned me at the stake.’”

By the time he finished reading it aloud, Heimdall’s voice was flat and his expression resigned as he just continued to stare down at the parchment. Bucky could feel his mouth hanging open and saw that T’Challa and a few other students looked the same as he was sure he did. Clint just waited with a smugly innocent smile on his face.

“You are quite the storyteller, Mr. Barton. I look forward to hearing more about your fascinating mind,” Heimdall eventually informed him, setting the parchment down and moving on to T’Challa’s without another word.

_Fascinating. That’s a really nice word for it._

At the end of the class, Heimdall instructed them to take their journals with them and log their dreams as soon as they woke up the following morning. “It is important to remember,” he added as they were packing up their belongings, “that any number of factors can influence the dreams you have and what they mean. Before you sleep, make sure you limit the amount of sugar you eat—“ (there was a collective groan at that) “—take some time to be by yourself, do something that you enjoy or that makes you feel at peace, and meditate for a few minutes. This will help you to clear your mind for the dreams to come naturally.”

“Meditate?!” grumbled Clint on their way to Charms after he’d subjected them to a thorough rant about the no-sugar warning. “The hell do we need to meditate for?”

T’Challa shot him a sidelong glance and shrugged. “For most of us, it’s to clear our minds. Yours seems fairly clear as it is, so I’m sure you can skip that part.”

“Hey, Luke?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck you.”

 

***

 

It had been a few weeks since the incident with the _Prophet_ and Bucky’s fight with his mom, but he found himself opening Sarah’s letter again anyway. Heimdall had said to do something that made them relax, so this was probably as good as it was going to get.

True to her word, his mom had made sure that nothing else was written about him (yet), and she’d apologized so many times in Fury’s office that he had started to think those might be the only words she knew at the time. Somehow he’d managed to scrape by without getting in trouble for yelling at her and being disrespectful; he figured it had something to do with her realizing she hadn’t exactly acknowledged just how earth shattering it all was to him outside her stupid campaign. And no, there wasn’t a way to take the article back or fix the things it had set in motion (like Bucky’s newfound insecurity regarding his grades, lack of confidence on the Quidditch pitch, and utter disinterest in going to Hogsmeade with the rest of his friends for fear of being hounded by someone with a camera), but he had to keep going. So did his mom and her campaign. She’d all but ignored the story, giving a passing statement when asked during a rally that it was nonsense, and they’d moved forward.

It hadn’t been easy, but Sarah’s letter had made it a little less hard.

> _My dearest Bucky,_
> 
> _I’m sure you can already guess why I’m writing and sending you a pretty ridiculous amount of sugar, so I won’t bother talking about it here except to say it’s the biggest bucket of steaming horseshit I’ve ever seen printed—and I’ve seen a LOT of garbage in my life. (Don’t you repeat that, young man, and if you do, do NOT tell your parents where you heard it.) I’m not writing to badmouth an idiotic “journalist,” though. Instead I figured it was about time I told you a story, one that Steve heard a long time ago._
> 
> _When Steve’s father was still alive, a long time before you both were born, he was given special orders by one of his superior officers. They were so special that he was never allowed to tell me what they were, and to this day I have no idea. But when they gave him these orders, he told them that he wouldn’t obey them and that they went against everything he stood for as a soldier, an American, and a human being. They threatened him with a court martial and throwing him out of the army if he refused, but he still wouldn’t do it._
> 
> _They did what they said: they brought him up on charges of insubordination and disobeying direct orders of a superior officer (among other things). They dragged it out over months, finding new and entertaining ways to dishonor, shame, and humiliate him in front of everyone he knew and who respected him. They said he lied about the orders he was given and did everything they could to discredit him, even if it meant lying themselves. But he refused to give in. He told me it didn’t matter what they said; he didn’t care if everyone in the army decided that he should have done something WRONG, claiming it was something RIGHT. They pushed him and told him to move, but he stood strong and stared them in the face and told the whole damn army, “No, YOU move.”_
> 
> _You want to know what happened? He won. He even got a promotion, all because he wouldn’t be cowed by the fear and shame someone else wanted him to feel. It was both the hardest and proudest time of his life._
> 
> _So I know it’s difficult, Bucky. I know it can make you want to hide under a rock and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. But you just remember that the people who really matter and who love you more than anything know the truth, and there are so many of us out here supporting you. You’ve always been my baby boy in everything but blood, just as Steve is to your mom and dad, and I am so proud of the young man you’re growing into. So you just remember: when you see someone telling lies or trying to make you feel ashamed and embarrassed, you stand up straight and tall. You hold yourself with pride and dignity even though it might be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. When they tell you to move, you plant yourself like a tree and tell them no, YOU move._
> 
> _I love you so much, Bucky, and so do your parents. We’ll all be here fighting for you._
> 
> _Love always,_
> 
> _Sarah_
> 
> _P.S. – Yes, I’m well aware that this story probably has a lot to do with Steve’s inability to keep himself out of trouble. I can’t regret telling it, though._
> 
> _P.P.S. – Don’t even think about eating all those cookies at one time, James Buchanan Barnes, and don’t you give me that innocent little face either._

Bucky smiled down at the letter, smoothing the slightly curling edges from where he’d repeatedly pulled it out and perused it. The cookies were long gone, and he’d eaten them in _two_ sittings instead of one, _thank you very much_. This letter was what he’d been expecting from his mother, what he would have expected back before she was running for the most important office in Great Britain, but it hadn’t come. Before they went home, he’d had a private moment with his dad where he said something similar, reminding him to keep his chin up and remember who he was instead of listening to what anyone else _said_ he was.

His mom, though… In spite of her apologies, he wasn’t really sure she’d fully grasped the fact that for Bucky, this had nothing to do with the election. He’d always been proud to be a Hufflepuff; he had friends, he learned a lot at school, and he had talent on a broom. There hadn’t been a moment when he’d felt insecure about who he was since he came to Hogwarts, not until that article had placed him on a plinth and shredded him into pieces. All for the sake of bringing his mother’s political aspirations down a few notches.

If being in politics meant tearing down other people, Bucky wanted no part of it.

He tried not to dwell on it, though. When he started feeling stressed or thinking that the two points Professor Hill had taken off his History of Magic paper for mixing up the names of two ancient battles was the end of the world, he pulled out Sarah’s letter and tried to remember that she really believed what she said. And deep down, even though he was still angry with his mother, he knew she believed them too. Sometimes he just needed to step back for a second and remind himself that that _was_ enough.

So Bucky took a deep breath and held it as he carefully slipped the letter back into its envelope and placed it in his wardrobe. He emptied his lungs as he got back on his bed, let Winter curl up in his lap, and closed his eyes. Heimdall had said to relax and meditate, and thinking about all that wasn’t going to help. There wasn’t much to meditation— _breathe in, breathe out, good in, bad out, set your thoughts aside for another time_ —and in combination with Sarah’s words he was able to calm himself enough to finally feel the stress of the day leech out. His shoulders drooped, losing the stiffness they’d adopted while he focused on classes, and his mind cleared out.

Pulling back his quilt, Bucky set Winter up on the pillow and slipped between his sheets, already warm from where he’d been sitting atop them. For the first time in a while, sleep came quickly as he was lulled by the rhythmic purring beside his ear.

 

***

 

_The house was on fire, but the flames didn’t touch him. He just walked calmly through the blaze, hunting for what he’d been looking for, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. The fire was simultaneously too bright and casting shadows so dark that he couldn’t see into them; they almost looked like voids, opening up to another dimension where nothing existed but the vacuum of space. He walked into the living room of their Brooklyn brownstone, tossing the magazines on the coffee table into the flames as he kept up the search, but what he was looking for wasn’t there. He checked below the table, upended all the couch cushions, and even ducked beneath the television stand, but it wasn’t there either. Frowning, he shook his head and wondered, both aloud and to himself, “Where the hell is it?”_

_He gave up the living room as a lost cause and slipped past the dining room table into the kitchen of their London townhouse. The flames were licking at the ceiling, and he sighed in disappointment—that would make it a bitch to look in here. Still, he couldn’t just_ stop _so he pushed his way through the smoke and fire to peek into the cabinets. He pulled out the plates, glassware, silverware—he dumped it all in the middle of the floor where it shattered with a resounding crash, but none of it mattered if he couldn’t find what he needed. It didn’t appear to be in the kitchen, though, and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He’d had it not that long ago, so why couldn’t he find it_ now _?_

_One of the support beams collapsed into the living room as he ducked back through and made his way up the staircase to the second floor, glancing both ways down the hallway and trying to decide where the most likely place to look would be. The fire was thinner up here, but the smoke was dense and dark where it floated above the bodies lining the hallway on either side. They stared up at him as he walked past, their eyes following under their foreheads carved with Ws and Ms. The heat from below was cooking them slowly, and their skin melted to the floor in a stinking, grotesque mess. One of them reached out to grab at his ankle, but Bucky easily stepped right over and continued on his way._

_The door to his room was standing open, but it was empty when he glanced inside. He peered into the closet; it was just another void of darkness, and that would take forever to search, so he’d save it for later._

_Becca’s room was similarly devoid of everything—furniture, toys, clothes. There was nothing to be found in there, so he made a quick stop in the hall bathroom to check the medicine cabinet before he retraced his steps and opened the door to his parents’ room._

_Bucky Bear was on the floor just inside the door, and he picked it up gingerly, brushing the soot and ash off its discolored fur. The little blue and red outfit it was wearing was in tatters, but the bear itself was still intact as he clutched it close and looked around. Unlike his and Becca’s rooms, all his parents’ belongings were still here, and he gave the scene a cursory glance before he began to hunt in earnest. The nightstands were empty, and the quilt on the bed had been burned to the point that it was reduced to merely rags falling sideways onto the floor. The clothes in the closet were similarly destroyed, and his mother’s makeup table was a mess of melted color._

_He was just about to give up when he spotted it: a black chest on the other side of the room right underneath the window. It was the only thing that wasn’t on fire or falling to pieces, so he knew that it held what he’d been looking for—finally._

_That’s why it was no surprise to find that it was locked when he tried to lift the handle. He endeavored to wedge his fingers between the lid and the box itself, but after a few tries, he drew back his hands to see them bleeding copiously with his fingernails dangling off. Rolling his eyes, he set Bucky Bear down on the lid and glanced around the room to see if there was something he could use to pry the top open. On his father’s desk was a razor-sharp letter opener with a jewel encrusted handle—that would do the trick._

_The letter opener was suddenly in his hand, and he turned back around to cram it into the locking mechanism when something hard and unyielding tightened around his midsection and_ yanked _._

 _He went sliding across the floor on his stomach, clawing at the ground as he tried to get back and finish—he was so close, it was just_ right there _! It was no use, though; whatever had hold of him tightened, making it difficult to breathe, and he felt like it grabbed onto his ankles and around his neck as well. He tried to call out, but it was like there was a bubble over his mouth, and it made him choke on the air around him like it had turned to liquid entering his lungs. The letter opener lay abandoned, and Bucky Bear just watched with his sad button eyes as Bucky was dragged out of the room and the chest exploded into fire and ash._

Bucky woke with a shout, and there was a loud _thump_ before pain erupted in his hip and shoulder. He couldn’t seem to get his breathing under control as his eyes darted feverishly around the room, unable to take in his surroundings or notice anything aside from _dark_. There were other sounds, then something wet on his fingers. _That_ didn’t make sense—what could possibly still be wet when there was fire everywhere?

It took a moment before he realized that there _wasn’t_. The fire he’d seen in his head had just been part of the dream; he was in his dormitory, hyperventilating on the floor where he’d fallen out of bed, and Winter was licking at his fingers in an attempt to get him to stop trembling. If she was irritated to be woken up in the middle of the night, she gave no indication.

Her big eyes eventually looked up at him, saw he was more aware of his surroundings, and immediately moved closer as she sank her claws into the front of his pajamas and climbed up his chest. He didn’t even think about it, mechanically wrapping an arm around her while she nuzzled at his face and let him get his bearings.

“You okay, man?”

Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin a moment before he realized it was just Sam, who was halfway sitting up in bed and peering blearily in his general direction, obviously not fully awake yet.

Swallowing hard, Bucky nodded jerkily and managed to get his voice working enough to whisper, “Yeah. Dreaming. Sorry.”

Sam grunted in what Bucky took as forgiveness and face-planted back into his pillow.

 _It was a dream_ , he repeated to himself shakily, eyes still darting this way and that until they acclimated enough to see through the darkness. _It was just a stupid dream._

So then why did he feel so empty?

 

***

 

They didn’t have Divination on Fridays, but Bucky found himself standing outside Professor Heimdall’s classroom regardless. Classes had long since let out for the day, so the corridors were empty as most students had already gone down to dinner; Bucky had been distraught since he’d woken up from that crazy dream, however, and thought Heimdall might be the only person who could help.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t reluctant. Nothing had changed since the previous day: he _hated_ talking about his dreams. Sometimes they were pretty normal—playing Quidditch, hanging out with his friends, pulling Steve out of fights—but other times they were just plain bizarre. They even put Clint’s puppy-god kitten massacre to shame, and that was saying something.

The nightmare he’d had the night before, however, was the worst in a while and far surpassed any other dream—good or bad—that he could remember. Not only that, but it was different in other ways. Usually he _knew_ he was in a dream, even if he couldn’t control it or do a damn thing to wake himself up. Contrarily, this one had felt like reality, even though it didn’t make any sense. And unlike normal nightmares where he could distract himself for a few hours and feel relatively normal again, this one had wound around his throat like the unseen force in the dream and _refused to let go_.

Steve had asked what was wrong countless times throughout the day, but he just couldn’t find the words to say anything. Not for lack of trying, either. So here he was, standing outside the Divination classroom wondering what the fuck was wrong with him and if it was even worth it to discuss.

“Can I help you, Mr. Barnes?”

Starting, Bucky whipped around to see Heimdall standing behind him in the corridor, watching with the same distant yet curious eyes as always. The man could cut an intimidating figure (unless you were Clint Barton, who seemed immune to _sense_ ), but Bucky had never been as unsettled by him as he was by Fury, even when he got that thousand-yard stare during class. Bucky wasn’t sure if he was seeing into the future, faking them out, or just trying to decide what to have for dinner, but it could be a little creepy at times.

“Um,” Bucky began, lacking all articulate thought as he tried to figure out how to say _I had a bad dream and think I might be losing my mind, any advice?_ without sounding like a freak or a baby.

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Heimdall held out an arm and gestured toward the classroom. “Why don’t we talk inside? It might be more comfortable than standing out here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He followed Heimdall past the rows of tables and through the door into his office. Contrary to popular belief, it looked surprisingly ordinary for someone who made a living teaching one of the most abstract forms of magic (not to mention one that hardly anyone believed in anymore). There were a few details that stood out, but they appeared to be just personal preference rather than based on any mumbo jumbo. The room was shaped like a dome with carvings in the gold-painted walls; they looked almost like gears in Muggle contraptions if Bucky had to compare them to anything. There was a dais in the center of the room where his desk was situated, facing out the window onto the grounds below. A spiral staircase stood to the side, which Bucky knew led up to a second entrance to the Astronomy Tower, but everything else was surprisingly open. Most of the bits and bobs Heimdall required them to use were stored in the classroom itself or in the Astronomy Tower, so there wasn’t much need to pack his office with magical gadgets from the looks of things.

Heimdall strode calmly up to his desk and sat down, waving to the black leather chair opposite him. “Have a seat and tell me what’s troubling you.”

Bucky obeyed immediately but frowned as he tensely inquired, “What makes you think something’s troubling me?” _I swear, if he can fucking read minds, I’m outta here._

“As your Divination professor, I should probably tell you that I gazed into my crystal ball this morning and knew that something upsetting would happen to drive you to come speak with me outside of normal class time,” Heimdall offered sagely before his lips quirked to the side. “But that would be a lie. It’s a Friday night and instead of being with your friends, you’ve come here. You were standing outside the classroom as though the gods might descend and smite you down if you set a foot inside, and you are defensive about having come here to ask, I assume, for my advice.”

When Bucky just blinked and gaped at him like a fish, Heimdall shrugged in an incongruously informal gesture and finished, “I have taught you for three years, James. I know when there is something wrong.”

_Okay, that makes sense._

Clearing his throat, Bucky nodded and muttered, “Right,” still not quite sure how to say it without sounding like a total baby. Starting from the beginning was probably the best, he figured, so after a minute he stammered, “Y-you know the…that journal we’re doing in…for Divination?”

“The dream journal,” Heimdall confirmed with a nod.

“Yeah. Well, I uh… I did what you said… The whole no sugar, meditating thing… And… I…”

The professor let him struggle to find the words for a bit longer before taking pity on him and prompting, “You dreamt something that disturbed you?”

 _Well, that’s one way to put it._ “Yeah. It was…really bad.”

Heimdall nodded, surveying him in that way that made Bucky feel like he was looking right into his very soul, but the professor didn’t speak again. Bucky wasn’t sure if he was waiting for him to explain or just to collect himself (there was no denying that he felt like a complete wreck between the nightmare itself and the prospect of talking about it), though Bucky honestly had no idea how he was going to accomplish the former when he had enough trouble admitting that there was a problem to begin with.

The matter was taken out of his hands after another long minute of ineffectual stuttering, however. “Did you write about it in your journal?”

“Y-yes, sir,” he managed to mutter. In an attempt to free his mind from the burden of the nightmare, he’d been excessively honest in listing every detail.

“May I see?”

Nodding in silence, Bucky dragged his schoolbag into his lap and dug around until he found the right length of parchment. He usually didn’t carry anything he didn’t need for classes that day, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone until he packed it inside.

Heimdall reached out a hand and took the journal from him, laying it out on his desk and leaving Bucky in silence as he read over the document. Although he was saved the trouble of having to verbalize his thoughts, Bucky was still vibrating out of his skin with nerves and bounced his foot up and down as he tried not to watch Heimdall’s face for a reaction. It was increasingly difficult the further he read and the longer he remained silent, however, Bucky’s mind swimming with the worst possible outcomes. Would he think Bucky was insane? Would he think he had made it up like Clint did? Would he say it was nothing and that he shouldn’t worry? The last possibility was what Bucky had been hoping for when he came here, even if it was just a vague idea and not a solid thought at the time, but the notion of his nightmare being dismissed as nothing more than a fantasy was beginning to make him just as uncomfortable as anything else.

He was starting to wonder if he would have been better off taking Ancient Runes or Arithmancy or something _normal_ instead of Divination if it was making him _this_ paranoid.

It took a while for Heimdall to finish reading; by the time he raised his head, Bucky thought he might be going out of his mind. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for Heimdall to speak.

Not so thankfully, it wasn’t to offer answers.

“Have you had dreams like this before?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, sir.”

“How did you feel when you woke?” The calm tenor of Heimdall’s voice soothed Bucky’s nerves a bit, and he was at least able to collect himself enough to speak succinctly this time, if a bit slower to hunt for the right words in his head.

“I was… I mean, I wasn’t _scared_ , not really? It was more like…I couldn’t feel anything. Like there was a hole in my chest and nothing would fill it up?”

Heimdall inclined his head slightly, observing him with tranquil, nonjudgmental eyes. “Did that sensation go away or are you still feeling it now?”

“A little,” Bucky murmured hesitantly, his face pinching up. “It was different after I woke up all the way. I, like…um… I didn’t feel _empty_ , but I still wasn’t all there? Like I went to class and stuff, but it didn’t really feel _real_.”

“Not like the dream did.”

“No.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Heimdall was quiet for a minute or two. He glanced back at Bucky’s journal, eyes skimming over the words once more. A small crease appeared between his eyebrows, the first show of emotion Bucky had seen from him since he finished reading the first time.

“I’m going to ask you a question, which you do not need to answer if you do not feel comfortable doing so,” the professor finally told him, and Bucky swallowed hard in anxious anticipation. “Have you lost anything or anyone recently, James?”

Whatever Bucky was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. Frowning, he shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Heimdall nodded, thought for a moment, and asked, “Do you _feel_ like you’ve lost something recently?”

Bucky opened his mouth to deny it again, to say that nothing had changed, but he was struck dumb when he realized that wasn’t strictly true. Ever since he’d seen his parents in Fury’s office, there _had_ been something missing. Thinking back even further, he could probably say that it was absent earlier than that as well, that it hadn’t been there since before he’d gone on summer vacation. He’d always had it, it had always been there, and now it was just as far removed from him as that chest in his parents’ nightmare bedroom.

He’d lost his mom. It sounded silly even inside his own head, but that didn’t mean it felt any less true. His mother had always been there for him growing up, a fierce defender of her family as well as the Wizarding world for years. In the last year, though, that changed so gradually that he hadn’t even realized it was gone until that moment. He hadn’t thought of the fact that his mom and dad were barely ever in the same room together anymore unless it was for publicity or to go to bed. He hadn’t noticed that most of the quality time he’d had with his family that summer was with his dad and Becca. He hadn’t counted all the times that he came home from school on holiday to find that his mother was at the Ministry in meetings from dawn to midnight for days on end. He hadn’t appreciated that the woman who talked to him when he was clearly sad, baked cookies for no reason, and held him when it felt like he might break apart as he grew up wasn’t there anymore.

His mother wasn’t dead, but he felt like he’d lost her all the same.

“Yeah,” he finally whispered, his eyes misty. “I guess I do.”

Heimdall nodded, pushing his journal back across the desk towards him. “Then what do you think this dream is telling you?”

It took a minute to blink back the wetness in his eyes, so Bucky used the time to consider the question thoroughly before he speculated, “That the thing I lost is still _there_ , I just… It’s gonna be hard to get to?”

“Perhaps.” When Bucky raised a bemused eyebrow, Heimdall clarified, “Dreams can mean many different things, James. As I’m sure your friend Mr. Barton would agree, Divination isn’t an exact science. If that is what your dream means to you, then that is what you must believe.”

It made sense, even if it was a really feeble answer, but something else occurred to Bucky as he glanced back over his writing and came to the very last thing he wrote. “But… The box exploded at the end…”

“Yes,” agreed his professor gravely, “it did.”

“So is this a vision?” he practically demanded, feeling himself growing more frantic as his mind began to race. “Does that mean it’s gonna…it’ll be _gone_?”

Heimdall paused, the first sign of reticence that he had shown throughout the whole conversation. Bucky thought maybe he was trying to think of a way to tell him gently, kindly, but he didn’t want platitudes and comfort. He just wanted the truth.

“That could be one answer.”

_Copout._

“However,” Heimdall continued when he saw the look on Bucky’s face, “do you remember what it said in your textbook about destruction occurring in a vision or premonition?”

For once, Bucky was indescribably glad he did the reading. “New beginnings?”

“Precisely. Perhaps it means whatever it is will be lost to you, or…”

“Or maybe it’ll come back and just be different from before,” conjectured Bucky, feeling the knot in his stomach ease under the proud expression Heimdall wore.

The conversation didn’t last much longer after that, and by the time Bucky was on his way downstairs to grab dinner his mind was awhirl with everything they’d spoken of. He hated that Divination didn’t have a specific answer; he hated that dreams were so fickle and impossible to translate with complete certainty. Their discussion did make him feel better, though, and the emptiness in his chest began to fill in as he saw his friends waiting for him at the Slytherin table tonight. They didn’t ask where he’d been, having known that he was acting strangely all day, although Steve shot him a questioning look when he was settled in. Bucky smiled back—he was okay.

He was even more okay when he got back to his dormitory that night and, shoving aside his recent anger and disappointment, wrote his first letter to his mother since the article incident. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a letter seeing as it only contained one sentence:

> _I love you, Mom._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was a little slow, so I should hopefully have another up later today to make up for it. :)


	12. Family Affairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a second chapter for today! I'd like to take this opportunity to say how much I admire anyone who consistently writes sports scenes. This Quidditch game was my first, and it was much harder than I thought it would be. So kudos to you, sports-writers!

“Halt, who goes there?”

“Me, you idiot.”

“Who? I’m afraid I don’t recognize your voice—you sound kinda familiar, but it can’t be! That person disappeared a long, long, long, _long_ —“

“Can it, punk!”

Steve shrieked as Bucky tackled him, knocking his sketchbook into the dirt and roughly grinding a fist into his blond hair.

“Knock it _off_!”

“You first!”

“Okay, okay—just quit.” Bucky got Steve’s elbow to the gut and backed off, both of them grinning breathlessly. Well, until Steve went looking for his sketchbook. “Aw, c’mon, it’s brand _new_!” he exclaimed indignantly, rescuing it from the ground and brushing off the cover with his sleeve.

Bucky rolled his eyes and, with as much snark as he could muster, indicated, “Wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t such an asshole.”

He got a dirty look in response (plus the bird for good measure) and laughed. Then Steve’s eyes landed on something to his right, a smirk twitching up the corner of his mouth.

“Keep laughing, jackass.” He settled back against the tree he’d been sitting next to and jerked his chin pointedly. Bucky followed his gaze to see Winter rolling around in the _mud_ on her _back_ because she was disgusting.

“Winter, no!”

The cat mistook his rebuke for encouragement and wiggled faster, meowing over Steve’s sniggers. Taking a deep breath, Bucky retrieved his wand from the inside pocket of his robes and pointed it at her, muttering, “ _Aguamenti!_ ”

Winter just about jumped out of her fur when she was hit with the stream of water, hissing disdainfully and making a break for it before Bucky caught her around the middle. She aimed a halfhearted swat at his arm and mewled pitifully but allowed him to clean her off all the same.

“Next time we’re not gonna be a little brat, right, Win?” cooed Bucky as he stowed his wand and let her shake herself dry.

The only answer he got was a damp cat to the crotch as she pounced into his lap for post-bath cuddles.

By the time he surfaced from the sheer excruciating pain, Steve had managed to calm his laughter down to a level that wouldn’t require him to use his inhaler. He merely shrugged innocently under the heat of Bucky’s glare.

“You two could have your own comedy act.”

“Whatever, Rogers.”

Steve snickered and turned his attention back to his drawing. Stroking Winter idly behind the ears, Bucky shifted closer to watch as the little figures he was putting in a Quidditch pitch came to life and shot around the page on their broomsticks.

It took a while, but Steve eventually murmured, “It _has_ been a while, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” sighed Bucky remorsefully.

Although they didn’t need Skype anymore, Wednesdays had continued to be Steve nights ever since they were in the second half of their first year. It had been difficult to find time to talk, just the two of them, the way they always had when they were around so many other people and had new friends. The issue had only been further exacerbated by the fact that they weren’t in the same house, which meant that they were limited to weekends and between classes to get a chance to talk. After curfew, they went back to their separate common rooms and slept in their separate dormitories.

So they’d declared that Wednesdays would be their day for _just them_. They met up after classes ended for the evening, grabbed a quick dinner in the Great Hall with the others, and then they went down to what they had oh so cleverly named The Spot: a place just inside the trees of the Forbidden Forest a few yards from the caretaker’s cabin. They were close enough to still see the castle, but they weren’t within sightlines of the doors or windows so that they wouldn’t find themselves the hosts to unexpected visitors. (That and the fact that _technically_ they weren’t allowed to be there anyway, but they hadn’t gotten caught yet, so it was a problem for another day.)

They’d met every Wednesday until fairly recently. Much as he would have liked to, Bucky couldn’t deny that it was his fault. He’d been so wrapped up in his grades and his Quidditch performance—especially with their first game the following day—that it would completely slip his mind until Thursday morning dawned and Steve threw part of his breakfast at him in revenge for leaving him sitting out in the cold autumn air by himself.

“’M really sorry about not showing up so much lately, Steve.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s really not,” he muttered under his breath. A steady breeze picked up and Winter bumped her head insistently against his stomach until he wrapped her up in his robes and held her to his chest. She was such a whiny little brat sometimes that he joked about her learning it from Steve on occasion. (It wasn’t something his best friend appreciated overmuch.)

When he looked back up, Steve had stopped drawing to observe him carefully, his eyebrows furrowed deeply. Bucky couldn’t hold his gaze for long and went back to staring at the dirt, so he didn’t see when Steve set aside his sketchbook and threw a skinny arm around his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he attempted to console him. “I get it. You don’t want to screw up right now.”

 _Leave it to Steve_ , thought Bucky. It never ceased to amaze him just how lucky he was to have a friend like Steve Rogers.

“You’re not going to, y’know.”

“What?”

“Screw up,” clarified Steve with a shrug. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The look on Bucky’s face must have indicated that Bucky didn’t believe it, however, which made him scoff outright for some reason. “Buck, you _literally_ just used a spell we’re not supposed to learn until N.E.W.T. levels _just_ to wash your _cat_.”

Bucky opened his mouth, frowned, and then closed it again. He honestly hadn’t realized the spell was that advanced, and said as much to Steve. “Mom taught me how to use it this summer. We were out in the middle of nowhere, and Winter got thirsty, so she taught me how to make water outta nothing.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve reached over to poke Winter’s nose, laughing when she latched on and started gnawing on the tip of his finger playfully. “You might just be the only person I know who says they only learned advanced magic for their cat.”

“She’s worth it,” chuckled Bucky, only half joking. As if she could understand him (which Bucky increasingly swore she _could_ ), Winter abandoned Steve’s finger to nip at his chin and snuggle closer to his collarbone.

“Speaking of your mom…” Steve trailed off for a moment, probably weighing whether he wanted to open up _that_ can of worms when Bucky was stressed enough as it was. “How’s that?”

Bucky had kept him up-to-date over the last few months about his dissolving relations with his mom, and after he’d spoken to Heimdall about his dream, he’d even opened up a bit about the letter he sent. He didn’t tell Steve anything about the nightmare itself, but he told him enough about the conversation he’d had with their teacher for Steve to put the rest together on his own. To his credit, Steve hadn’t made fun of him the way they normally would have in similar instances. He’d offered advice, told Bucky that he should be more upfront with his mother about the things that bothered him _and why_ , and then spent the rest of that particular evening doodling rude pictures of Bucky’s least favorite politicians to cheer him up.

Watching Minister Stern get a pineapple shoved up his ass on a loop should have been a marketed antidepressant.

Inhaling deeply, Bucky gathered his thoughts a moment before saying, “She wrote back. I think…she might be starting to get it? She didn’t say anything about her campaign or how things are going at the Ministry, which is _nice_.” He barked a sudden laugh, smirking over at Steve as he recalled, “She did say that she took Becca to work with her one day, and they got stopped on their way up to her office by some reporter. I don’t know what the lady was asking, but she pissed off Becca enough that she lost control of her powers and made the lady’s camera _explode_!”

“You’re kidding!” snorted Steve hysterically, clutching his sides.

“Nope!” Bucky shook his head, choking out the rest of his story around his uncontrollable laughter. “She said it just— _boom_ —all over the elevator. Everyone was _covered_ in purple glitter. She said she couldn’t get it out of her hair for a week!”

They completely dissolved into a fit of laughter; Bucky felt tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks as he gasped for breath.

When he could finally manage to get a coherent word out, Steve breathed, “That’s _amazing_!”

“I know,” chortled Bucky, wiping his face.

“That’s it—I’m drawing her _five_ pictures this time.”

“Pal, I think she probably deserves _ten_ for that.”

“You may have a point,” sighed Steve, retrieving his sketchpad from where it had fallen off his lap. He closed the book resolutely and rested his elbows on top, shaking his head with a few residual chuckles. “I knew I liked that kid.”

Bucky nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, she’s all right. I guess we can keep her.”

He got a sock to the shoulder for that one and tipped over sideways onto the ground, pretending to be in agony. “Damn, Rogers!”

Steve sneered at him and mumbled, “Oh please, don’t start.”

“What?” Bucky grinned wickedly. “All those Quidditch workouts paying off, huh?”

“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” deflected Steve with a great deal of that old Rogers dignity.

“Guess we will.” Bucky sighed, leaning back on one palm and holding Winter up with the other. He could tell she was getting disgruntled at all the movement when she was _trying_ to take a _nap_ and her lousy human wouldn’t let her, so it was probably best to chill for a bit.

“Your family coming?”

Shrugging, Bucky grunted, “’S far as I know. What about your mom?”

“She’ll be there. She told me she was going to see my first game if she had to fight off a herd of angry manticores to do it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yeah, no.” There was something dispirited in his tone that Bucky _really_ didn’t like. It was typical Steve Rogers: he would fight tooth and nail to get something but then wonder if it was really something he _could_ do when it was too late to back out.

“That’s good. She’ll be around to see Hufflepuff _wipe the floor_ with Gryffindor.”

If there was one thing that was _also_ typical Steve Rogers, it was that if someone _told_ him he couldn’t do something, he’d outlive the universe proving they were _wrong_.

“Oh, really? That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I think.”

Steve shot him a sidelong glance, immediately cottoning onto what he was doing but holding to their usual agreement of not mentioning it. “Then I guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

Grinning, Bucky bumped their shoulders together. “Yup. Guess we will.”

 

***

 

The weather was almost perfect for Quidditch: overcast and not too cold. (There was nothing more annoying than trying to keep track of the Bludgers when the sun was in your face.) A light drizzle was spitting down from the clouds occasionally, but for the most part, the conditions were as good as they could hope for during the first game of the season.

As tradition mandated, Bucky and Steve ate with their respective house teams, making jeering faces at each other across the Great Hall. If Steve was nervous, he was using all the stubbornness in him to keep it from showing. That didn’t stop Bucky from checking in with him as they made their way down to the locker rooms, however, for which he got an impatient eye roll with an incongruously appreciative smile. Then, of course, Steve told him not to be too mad when Gryffindor beat them, and Bucky retaliated by miming aiming a bat for Steve’s head—business as usual.

His fellow Hufflepuffs changed mostly in silence except for Clint, who played Seeker and was usually _more_ obnoxious before a game than any other time. Bucky secretly harbored the belief that it was how his nerves manifested, but Sam (who had disappointingly not made the team this year) was pretty sure it was just a manifestation of what an asshole he was.

Before they finished dressing, they got their customary pep talk from Ellie, although it was less pep and more biting sarcasm than anything else. When Bucky had first tried out for the team the previous year, he’d almost given up and gone right back inside when he saw the surly prefect who had shown them the common room on their first night in the castle was also the captain for the Hufflepuff team. It actually turned out being a good thing that he’d stuck around, if he was being honest. Ellie was tough but fair; her comments were usually meant as less of an insult than they sounded like. Most of the time, she was actually pretty funny in spite of the fact that she would probably kill you as soon as hear you say that. She was a seventh year now and made no qualms of reminding them that she wanted to go out with a bang—and that there were possibly scouts in the crowd, so if they made her look bad, she’d make them wish they’d never been born.

So yeah. Just because she wasn’t the spawn of all evil didn’t mean she couldn’t sometimes be a bitch.

“I’ll be so glad when she graduates,” muttered Clint under his breath as they lined up to enter the pitch.

Bucky bounced his head from side to side as if considering something and commented slightly louder, “You just want Dugan to take over.”

Laughing loudly despite Ellie’s venomous glare, Dum Dum gave them a thumbs up. “Ain’t no one better, ladies.”

“Except maybe _everyone_ ,” smirked Clint.

Dum Dum didn’t have time for a rebuttal before Ellie gave the signal for them to mount their brooms, and then they were off.

Bucky was glad he’d remembered to bring his goggles, because while it wasn’t nearly as cold as it could be this time of year, the raindrops that occasionally hit his face were like tiny, icy needles pricking his skin repeatedly as he shot up off the ground. They had five minutes to warm up, so the team split up as they did laps around the pitch. He was halfway through his second round when Steve pulled up beside him with a lopsided grin.

“Have you seen your mom yet?” he called over the howl of the wind in their ears. When Bucky simply shook his head, he started laughing and slowed his broom to a stop, Bucky following suit.

He peered down into the stands where Steve’s finger was pointing and couldn’t help laughing when he saw exactly what Steve meant. Quidditch matches were the only time when families were able to visit Hogwarts, and his parents had made it a point to be at every one of his games; Sarah had shown up to most of them, as well. This time was no different in _many_ ways, the only change being that Sarah was wearing Gryffindor colors instead of Hufflepuff, although she carried a badger pennant in support of Bucky regardless. Right beside her was a small sea of yellow and black where his parents and Becca were decked out in his house colors. For the first time in months, Bucky saw his mom out of her professional attire wearing black jeans, a yellow and black striped sweater that made her look like a bumblebee, and a bright yellow raincoat; she was also carrying an umbrella that alternated between pure yellow and badger-printed panels. She was grinning up and waving like a maniac; Bucky could tell she was cheering with the rest of the crowd before the game even began.

That wasn’t what shocked Bucky, though. No, that went to what he saw right behind her:

A crowd of photographers and journalists, all watching his mom make a scene because she was excited to see her son play.

“Holy cow,” breathed Bucky, shaking his head with his mouth gaping. He raised a hand and tentatively waved back, which he could see even from this distance made his mother’s grin widen. When he glanced back at Steve, his best friend was smiling brightly at him.

“Some things never change.”

Chuckling breathlessly, Bucky replied, “Nope. Looks that way.”

The whistle blew for them to get in position not long after that, and Bucky took his place on the opposite side of the pitch from Wade Wilson, the newest Beater on the Gryffindor team. The kid was a little wacky, if Bucky was being honest, but he was entertaining and damn good with a bat. He waved at Bucky, his smile genuine in spite of the sarcasm in the motion; Bucky just rolled his eyes in response, knowing better than to flip him the bird when his mother was in the crowd. Instead he turned back to where Phillips had entered the pitch and was standing directly below where Ellie and the Gryffindor team captain, Jack Thompson, were facing off in the center.

He gave them all a stink-eye that said very clearly _if you cheat, there’ll be hell to pay_ , and released the Snitch from the ball chest.

A second later, the Quaffle was in the air and the game began.

Bucky immediately veered off to the side of the pitch, staying as close to the center line as he could until it became obvious that the Gryffindors would be holding onto the Quaffle first. He waited for the first opportunity and, judging the angle, sent a Bludger flying right into Thompson’s chest as he sailed toward the Hufflepuff goalposts. The Quaffle fell just in time for Ellie to grab it and rocket towards the Gryffindor side, Dum Dum flanking her to keep away any Bludgers.

A little flash of red came out of nowhere and then Steve was right below them, jerking his broom suddenly skyward and somehow managing to slip the Quaffle right out from where Ellie had been holding it to her side. He veered around to head in the opposite direction.

Bucky tried to move forward, but Wade was right in front of him, refusing to let him pass. When Bucky attempted to go under him, he pulled a sloth roll and Bucky drew back to avoid smacking their foreheads together. The kid was _fast_ ; every move Bucky made, he had a counter move and then some prepared. It became painfully evident that the kid had been watching from the bench _way_ too much.

A whistle sounded, and a shrill voice announced, “TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!”

An uproarious cry rose up from the side of the stands dressed in red and gold while a collective groan could be heard from the Hufflepuff end. It was just ten points, though—there was plenty of time left in the game.

Hufflepuff made the next three goals, then Gryffindor scored two after that. Bucky was still blocked by Wade at every turn; he would have thought that it was a Gryffindor strategy for the game until he saw Thompson yelling angrily for Wade to try doing something _other than making out with Barnes over there._

“Ugh, sorry, sweetie. Looks like my _other_ daddy’s calling me for dinner,” Wade sighed, shooting towards his team captain and leaving a very confused (and slightly disturbed) Bucky in his wake. He shook it off as quickly as he could, finally free to get back into the action without Wade literally shadowing his every move.

Steve had the Quaffle across the pitch, Ellie and Jim Morita right behind him with Rhodes running blocker. Thinking fast, Bucky hurtled towards the Hufflepuff goalposts in a wide arc that brought him around to face them head on at the same time the Bludger aimed at Morita went right over his head. Bucky pulled up short, swung his club, and sent the Bludger flying right back at the crowd coming towards him.

Rhodes tried to get in front of Steve to take the hit, but he didn’t make it before Bucky’s Bludger made contact with the front of Steve’s broom (yes, he would have been aiming at the face with anyone else, but this was _Steve_ , give him a break) and sent him tumbling end over end. Rhodes fumbled the Quaffle when it went flying and almost caught it until Morita slammed into him, leaving it open for Ellie to go into a nosedive and grab the ball before it hit the ground. She just barely managed it and pulled the front of her broom back up to avoid hitting Steve where he was righting himself—then the group was heading back towards the Gryffindor goalposts.

Nearly an hour later, the score was ninety-seventy in favor of Gryffindor with no sign of the Snitch anywhere. Clint’s brow was furrowed and, for the first time in Bucky’s memory, he looked genuinely annoyed.

Bucky pulled up beside him and called, “We can win this if you wanna catch it anytime now.”

Unlike Bucky, Clint had no reservations about flipping him off—with _both_ barrels. “Thought I saw it a while ago, but it was just someone’s watch. Fuckin’ thing’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

Humming sympathetically, Bucky nodded in the direction of the Gryffindor Seeker. “Just keep an eye on Parker. He’s a good eye.”

“You saying he’s better than me, Barnes?”

“Would _I_ do that?” gasped Bucky in mock indignation. Clint snorted.

“Not when I know where you sleep, you wouldn’t.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

“Just keep an eye on your boy,” retorted Clint, nodding towards where Steve was following Ellie down the pitch. “He’s better than I thought he would be.”

“You thought he’d suck?”

“Nah, just didn’t think he’d be _that_ good.”

That made a spark of pride shoot up in his chest. Steve had been just okay at his tryout, but he’d worked ridiculously hard to get better; Bucky had done what he could to help when he wasn’t too busy losing his shit over schoolwork or having a nervous breakdown. The fact that he was doing so well when he was the _worst_ at Muggle sports was satisfying as hell, even if he _was_ on the other team.

Another half hour passed before Bucky saw Clint and Peter Parker suddenly shooting in the same direction, but he didn’t have a chance to watch as he saw Thompson heading towards the Hufflepuff goalposts again. Things weren’t going so well for their side; after Bucky’s stunt, Thompson had purposely put Wade back on him to keep him out of the game. At first it was entertaining given that Wade couldn’t keep his mouth shut and was actually a pretty funny guy, but it was getting really old rather quickly and he was about ready to scream. With him out of commission and Morita being removed from the game after taking a Bludger to the face, their side was wide open and the current score was 250 to 100 in Gryffindor’s favor. Bucky had lost count of how many times Ellie had stopped to speak with their Keeper, who liked to be called Rogue (he thought her real name was _Marie_ or something, but he wasn’t quite sure), her eyes flashing dangerously and her voice low. Usually Rogue was on point, but he’d overheard her crying in the Great Hall the night before about accidentally cursing her boyfriend so badly he needed to be taken to St. Mungo’s. Clearly it was keeping her from blocking the Gryffindors from scoring a million points, and Ellie looked about ready to throw her off her broom if she didn’t pull her act together.

Bucky was trying to stay positive: if Clint caught the Snitch, they could still tie up the game as long as Gryffindor didn’t score again.

Which it looked like they might just do.

Rhodes had the Quaffle and was flying up the middle of the pitch, dodging a Bludger from Dugan. Ellie left off berating Rogue and flew right for him.

Glancing at his shadow, Bucky thought, _Oh what the hell_.

“Hey, Wade?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Which do you think would win in a fight: a unicorn or a mermaid?”

Wade turned to look at him, folding one arm across his chest while the other went to his chin. “Well, I mean, that’s obvious. Unicorns fight on land, so as soon as the mermaid came out, they would totally lose. But then again, if you push a unicorn in the water, do they float? Can they swim? If they can, they can spear those mermaids and make a fucking kebab—but if they _can’t_ —“

Thoroughly distracted, Wade didn’t seem to see Bucky slip right past him towards the action and it took a second before he heard a hilariously disappointed, “You asshole!”

Clint and Parker crossed right in his path; Bucky barrel rolled to avoid them and ducked underneath Ellie’s feet, rising up on the other side. Something hard and fast hit him in the thigh—a Bludger, probably payback from Wade—but he managed to keep his balance.

Unfortunately, he kept it a little to the right and was right in Rhodes’s path. The two collided, and Rhodes dropped the Quaffle just as another Bludger from Dum Dum smacked him in the chest. Given that he was still leaning half on Bucky’s broom, the two fell quickly toward the ground a few yards before Bucky could wrench his broomstick to the side and extricate himself. Thompson, he noticed, had caught the dropped Quaffle and was still heading for the Hufflepuff goalposts.

On the other side of the pitch, Clint and Parker both had their hands outstretched towards a tiny glint of gold a few feet ahead of them.

Bucky saw another Bludger coming his way—okay, Wade was _really_ pissed—and held his bat up, using the angle to send it sailing right at the back of Thompson’s head.

It made contact with a sickening crack that Bucky could hear all the way from where he was still hovering at the same time as Thompson released the Quaffle.

Rogue went for it—

She reached—

She missed. Again.

The Quaffle went flying through the left hoop and, barely a second later, the whistle blew to indicate that the Snitch had been caught. Bucky whipped around to see Clint holding the tiny ball up above his head, although Parker didn’t look more than slightly put out that he hadn’t gotten it first, which was easily explained when the announcer’s voice rose over the stadium again:

“THE FINAL SCORE IS 260 TO 250—GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

Bucky sighed disappointedly but couldn’t help a small smile when he saw Steve right at the middle of the Gryffindor dog pile. The red-and-gold clad spectators spilled out onto the pitch to meet them with deafening cheers while the Hufflepuffs applauded at being so damn close.

Ten points, all things considered, was pretty good.

Shrugging the loss off as best he could and attempting to think of anything other than the fact that a bunch of reporters would probably be writing about Hufflepuff inadequacy in tomorrow’s _Daily Prophet_ , Bucky joined Dum Dum and landed by the exit to make their way back to the locker room.

They were almost halfway there when a little missile smacked Bucky in the groin and held on tight. Dum Dum was practically rolling on the ground laughing as Bucky wheezed, picking Becca up once he’d caught his breath and spinning her around. She giggled into the front of his Quidditch robes and then looked up at him with a huge grin.

“That was _awesome_!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I wanna play like that!”

Chuckling, Bucky bounced her once before putting her back on the ground and promising, “You can when you get to Hogwarts. I’ll teach you how.”

“Really?!”

“You bet.”

That got him tackled yet again, and he looked up when he heard his parents’ laughter a few feet away. His mom and dad looked windswept from being in the stands, but they were both smiling proudly. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought they _won_ the game. Sarah was nowhere to be seen, probably off congratulating Steve.

“Darling, you were magnificent!” his mother squealed as she threw herself at him in a remarkably accurate imitation of Becca. “Absolutely wonderful!”

“You were watching the same game I was, right?” he laughed uncomfortably, hugging her back tightly nonetheless. She pulled away and smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

“I _was_ , as a matter of fact.” Her tone was slightly scolding before she began ranting about Wade being on his ass the whole time and how that really wasn’t _fair_ and she just didn’t understand how that wasn’t against the rules but it didn’t matter because he still got some great hits in and she thought he was the best Beater out there regardless of whether they won or not—Bucky was beginning to worry she’d pass out if she didn’t take a breath.

His dad seemed to be thinking along the same lines and cut in, “I think what your mother is _trying_ to say is that you did a fantastic job anyway, Buck. You guys would’ve tied up if that one kid had waited just one second longer to throw the last goal.”

“I know,” groaned Bucky, shaking his head. “We could’ve at least tied.”

“You’re not too far behind, though. As long as you guys win the next two games, you still have a shot at the cup.”

“If I can keep Wade off my as—butt,” he corrected himself mid-word when he saw his mother’s eyebrow rising slowly. When he lived every day being able to say whatever he wanted, it took some time to remember when his parents were around that that kind of language was the sort of thing his mother would ream him for. (His dad had given up and even used those words around him under pain of grounding if his mom ever found out.)

They talked about some of the highlights for a few more minutes before Sarah appeared, hugging Bucky from behind and congratulating him on a game well played in spite of their loss. She also thanked him for helping Steve, saying that he’d written and told her that they had been practicing together, but Bucky waved it off. Steve was the one who did the work, he said; Bucky just floated around and threw the ball.

After a bit, Bucky’s eyes traveled around the parents, students, and professors milling about before he had the courage to ask the question that had begun to plague him.

“So…where are all those photographers?”

His mom and dad exchanged a quick, unreadable glance before his mom replied, “We told them they weren’t allowed to see you after the game.”

Blinking, Bucky opened and closed his mouth once before blurting out, “ _Why_?”

“Because it’s none of their business,” his dad told him firmly. His mother nodded in agreement.

“They asked if they could come to cover the game and watch you play, which I approved. _However_ ,” her tone changed from flippant to protective mama-bear with that one word, “I _politely_ informed them that this was a family affair and that you would _not_ be available for interviews or comments, nor would I.”

There was a lump growing in Bucky’s throat with every word his mom said until he wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to speak or breathe around it. He swallowed hard and nodded, taking a deep breath before he was able to joke, “ _Politely_ , huh?”

His mom waved a hand carelessly with a shrug. “I’m British, darling, I’m _always_ polite.”

 _There she is_ , thought Bucky with a wavering smile. _There’s Mom._

He was nearly as tall as her now, but Bucky still wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face in her shoulder. His mom chuckled lightly, hugging him back with one arm while her free hand stroked through the hair at the nape of his neck gently. It had been a long time since he’d felt like he truly _needed_ one of her hugs, and a weight lifted off his chest as she held him tightly. It felt like coming home for the first time in an eternity.

 

***

 

> UNDERSECRETARY’S SON DOES MOTHER PROUD ON THE PITCH
> 
> _The first Saturday in November has been a special day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry since the school was opened: the first day of the Quidditch season. Tryouts are held each year in September to ensure that only the best players are on each team, even if it means a player from the year before loses their position. Students and professors gather to see the event, and families are invited to watch their children in action._
> 
> _This year,_ Daily Prophet _editor Jonah Jameson had the pleasure of accompanying Winifred Barnes, current undersecretary and prospective Minister for Magic pending the election in January, to watch her son play in the match between his house, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor._
> 
> _“One thing,” Jameson commented after the match, “became obvious right from the start, and that is that James Barnes is an absolute beast on the pitch.”_
> 
> _Barnes, a third year at Hogwarts, played for the Hufflepuff team during his second year and returned as Beater again this term. While Beaters hardly get the majority of the recognition even in the professional leagues, Barnes was the center of attention during much of the game as his prowess became apparent from the starting whistle. Throughout the course of the match, he blocked three shots and shielded the Hufflepuff goalposts countless other times with extraordinarily accurate Bludger-shots. He even managed to pull off an impressive feint that left two Gryffindor Chasers reeling and secured a goal for his team._
> 
> _Although Hufflepuff lost the match 260 to 250, Barnes’s contribution to the team was a major factor in the near-tie. Could there be a future for the Undersecretary’s son as a professional Quidditch player? Only time will tell, but the_ Prophet _congratulates him and all the members of the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor teams for a match well played._

“From talentless hack to star of the team!” crowed Sam, shaking Bucky’s shoulders where he was _trying_ to eat his breakfast on Sunday morning.

Bucky rolled his eyes, swallowing his mouthful of eggs before wiping away a fake tear. “They like me. They really, _really_ like me!”

Snorting, Clint tore a sausage in half with his teeth and mumbled, “They practically have a hard-on for you.” Bucky elbowed him in the ribs before patting him on the back when he choked on his food.

“They should’ve said something about you in here,” he sighed, folding up the paper and tossing it aside. “That was an impressive catch.”

Clint shrugged a shoulder casually, clearing his throat. “I’m cool, man,” he insisted with a smile, slapping Bucky on the back. “If it gets them off your ass, take it and run.”

“Here here,” agreed Steve as he arrived, plopping himself down across from Bucky and reaching for the oatmeal. He looked about ready to fall over.

“Long night?” inquired Bucky innocently.

Steve mimed gagging and scooped up a spoonful of his breakfast a little more viciously than was really necessary. “I get the party, I really do. But, like, they wouldn’t shut up after most of us went to bed!”

“The life of a star,” Sam commiserated somberly, yelping when Steve kicked him under the table. “Strike that: you’re a _diva_ , Rogers.”

They all burst into laughter, including Steve after a moment, and a feeling of calm descended around Bucky as they discussed the match play by play. They’d almost won the game, his family was proud of him, his friends were happy, and even the _Prophet_ was writing nice things about his performance.

Bucky took a deep breath and let the conversation flow around him with a small smile. Life was good.


	13. Not Quite Home

Bucky, Steve, and T’Challa were sitting on the floor in the entrance hall practicing Summoning Charms when it happened.

Professor Stark had said that he usually didn’t teach Summoning Charms until students were in their fourth year, but he decided to change it up since, if you had the will, it apparently wasn’t all that difficult. Bucky had believed him until he remembered that this was the man responsible for Tony Stark’s existence, which meant that it really would be a tossup as to just how simple the charm was.

As it turned out, it wasn’t terrible. It took a ton of concentration and absolutely no distractions, but he had managed to successfully summon a marble in class. Steve had accomplished about the same while T’Challa had already moved ahead to couch cushions because he was an overachiever and the son of a bitch _knew it_ too. Stark had informed them that their homework over the holidays would be to attempt summoning anything they could, including their presents—if _that_ didn’t give them the incentive to get it right, nothing would.

Steve and Bucky hadn’t wanted any homework during Christmas, so they enlisted T’Challa’s help and were summoning Winter’s monkey ( _mostly_ successfully) back and forth across the entrance hall while the cat chased after it from below. (Igorha had joined in for a while before tiring of the repetition and prowling off to explore.)

“Keep your wand higher,” T’Challa criticized.

Bucky adjusted his grip and retried the spell. “ _Accio!_ "

The stuffed monkey flew out of Steve’s hands across the corridor but fell short, dropping to the floor while the eager cat pounced on it. Bucky frowned, huffing in frustration.

T’Challa tutted. “If you stop concentrating halfway through, it will do that.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” whined Bucky. The other two laughed at his childish antics, but he just rolled his eyes at them and pointed his wand at Winter’s toy determinedly. “ _Accio!_ ”

_…I could have thought that through_ so _much better._

A second later, Steve and T’Challa’s laughing redoubled when Bucky got a mouthful of synthetic fur and cat hair. He just barely managed to drop his wand and catch Winter before she careened into his face, not that the little brat noticed. Claws firmly embedded in her monkey, she gave him an exasperated look before licking his cheek in consolation.

“Thanks, Win. At least _someone_ is on my side.” He mock glared at his friends, but neither of them seemed overly concerned.

They calmed down after a little more jeering and Steve had just raised his wand to summon the monkey again when multiple sets of footsteps echoed loudly down the staircase. Bucky frowned at the other two, but none of them made a move to get up. It was a Saturday and nowhere near curfew, so they weren’t out of bounds.

Regardless, the sight of Professors May, Coulson, and Hill set him on edge, especially when their gazes collectively sought out and focused on _him_.

Professor May strode right up to him and ordered without preamble, “Barnes, you need to come with us.”

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.” He didn’t even realize he’d said it until the words were already out there and closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked, but May’s expression softened slightly.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” she reassured him, motioning for him to get up. “Let’s go.”

Swallowing hard, Bucky pushed himself to his feet, as did T’Challa and Steve, but May indicated that they would need to stay. Although she had already assured him that he wasn’t in any trouble, Bucky couldn’t help shooting his friends a look of mild panic as soon as she turned her back. T’Challa’s face was carefully blank, but he inclined his head in unspoken encouragement; brow furrowed, Steve did the same with an expression that clearly said Bucky would need to tell him exactly what happened later. Nodding slightly in silent affirmation, Bucky turned and followed as May led the way back up the stairs to the third floor; Coulson and Hill flanked him immediately.

_If I’m not in trouble, why are we going to Fury?_ he asked himself, the familiar sense of dread he’d felt the last two times he’d come here beginning to fester in the pit of his stomach. By the time they went up the spiral staircase and entered Fury’s office, he was fairly positive he would be a quivering mess if it weren’t for the fact that he had Winter grounding him. No one had said he couldn’t bring his cat, and he was incredibly grateful for it when he saw that it wasn’t just Fury waiting in his office.

Just about every professor he had and some he didn’t were gathered around one of the tables, which had been cleared of all the magical trinkets it normally displayed. He couldn’t see just yet what they were all staring down at, but when Fury noticed him enter, he stepped aside enough for Bucky to glimpse what looked like flowers.

“Mr. Barnes, I know you were expecting to leave for the holidays in a couple of days, but you’ll be starting your vacation early.”

Bucky blinked, incapable of comprehending Fury’s statement for a long minute since it had nothing to do with him being disemboweled for some heinous crime.  When he did, he shook his head in confusion and inquired, “How come?”

There was a pause, as though Fury was deciding just how much to tell him. After an immeasurable moment, he explained frankly, “A package was delivered this morning addressed to you. You didn’t get it because it set off curse detectors as soon as it hit the school’s wards.”

Swallowing, Bucky whispered, “Curses?”

Fury nodded. “As soon as I realized, I had it rerouted up here. There was no card to say who it was from. We’ve been analyzing it ever since.”

He stepped away from the table and gestured for him to come closer. Hesitantly, Bucky obeyed, his shoes scuffing against the floor in his reluctance. As soon as he was close enough to see through the gap, he stopped; he didn’t want to be any nearer than necessary anyway, but he also didn’t need to lose his grip on Winter if she got curious either.

Sitting on the table was, in fact, a bouquet of flowers. There was also a miniature model of his broom. It wasn’t exact; there were runes painted up the side of the broomstick and the foot pegs were missing. It all looked relatively benign, but from the grave expression on even Professor Stark’s typically casual face, he knew that there was something he wasn’t able to see.

“So…what does the curse _do_?” he asked tentatively, not sure if they would deign to answer. He wasn’t his parents, after all, and he distantly wondered why they weren’t here in the first place if someone outside of Hogwarts had tried to curse him.

No one spoke at first, and Fury seemed to be holding a silent conversation with the other professors before he waved a hand in the direction of Steve’s Ancient Runes teacher. “Professor Banner, if you’d like to share.”

Bucky had been in the presence of Professor Banner on exactly _one_ occasion when Steve had forgotten to ask something about an assignment and Bucky accompanied him to get his answers. The man had a nervous disposition, frequently fidgeting with his glasses and avoiding eye contact. His curly hair was graying in places where it hung down in his face and his robes were a bit shabbier than what most of the other professors usually wore, all of which did nothing to detract from the slightly mad aura he exuded. He was kind, though, and very patient from what Steve had said. That was why, when he lifted his eyes from the table just long enough to give Bucky one of the saddest and most _frightened_ looks he’d ever encountered, he felt like his stomach dropped into his feet.

“Well, these uh… You see the runes here—“ he began, pointing to the broom, “—and here.” He motioned towards the rubbery band holding the flowers together, where Bucky hadn’t noticed but there _were_ a bunch of similar runes written in. If Banner hadn’t pointed them out, he would have thought they were just decoration. “These don’t actually do anything on their own, but the translation for them is… Well, it’s hard to explain in English. They’re never used unaccompanied, though, but in tandem with other spells and enchantments. These ones are part of a spell—a _curse_ that… It’s not very nice,” he finished lamely, dropping his eyes back to the table and frowning.

Now Bucky may not have been at the top of his class, but he had sort of worked out that curses weren’t very nice on his own a while ago.

“And what does that curse _do_?” he repeated his earlier question, not meaning to sound as impatient as he knew he probably did.

Stark folded his arms and sighed, “That’s the thing, kid—we don’t know.” Bucky couldn’t tell if he was more put out with that fact on its own or that someone had gotten one up on him. It was probably the latter. “I mean, it’s a similar curse to one that causes massive internal hemorrhaging so that you die drowning in your own blood, but it’s not _exactly_ the same. It’s like someone made up their own hybrid spell, but without testing it we don’t know how it’ll alter the original and impact the victim.”

_You’re not gonna see me volunteering._

“And it’s not just the curse,” interjected Professor Ross, his Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures teacher. She was usually rather lighthearted unless she was telling them not to do something that might be dangerous in class, but her face looked grey as she pointed to the band with the runes written on it. “You see this?”

“Yeah…”

“Think back to your first year, Bucky. What does that look like?”

Frowning in concentration, Bucky bent slightly closer and edged to the side so the flowers weren’t in the way. Now that she mentioned it, he could see that it wasn’t a rubber band as he’d originally thought. It was almost like a dark vine, and runes weren’t written on it—they were _carved_ into it.

Bucky racked his brains before he remembered, jerking back a few steps with wide eyes. “Devil’s Snare!”

Professor Ross nodded slowly. “That’s another reason we can’t be sure the curse was meant to kill you. You set these in water in your dormitory before bed, turn out the lights, and you’ll be strangled by morning.”

“Unless that’s the point, and the curse is meant to make sure he’s dead in case the plant doesn’t cut it,” suggested Stark in a tone that said they’d already been through this before Bucky arrived.

“Or whatever it does can be blamed on the plant,” she countered.

“Either way,” Fury cut in with a warning glance at both of them, “we’re looking at some nasty stuff right now. The wards caught it this time, that’s what they’re there for. But whoever sent these things isn’t looking to play a prank—they’re trying to send a _message_. Right now the best thing is to get you out of here so you’re not where someone would expect you to be two days from now.”

Fury stepped away from the table, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to guide him along towards his desk. “We’ve already been in touch with your parents, and they’ve okayed the change in plans. The Ministry approved the activation of a Portkey that will take you straight there. Your trunk and other belongings will be sent along behind you. You’ll have them by morning.”

They stopped in front of his desk, where there was a brightly colored teapot that looked absolutely absurd among the other items Fury usually kept around, and he motioned for Bucky to take hold of it. A thought occurred to him through the haze of his panic, though, and he managed to stammer out, “B-but what…what about m-my friends? They…they d-don’t _know_ —“

“We were given permission from your parents to inform Mr. Rogers, Mr. Charles, and your roommates that you’ll be leaving early, which Professor Coulson is _just on his way to do_.” Fury raised his voice on the last part, glancing up at Professor Coulson. The latter nodded firmly and immediately vanished into the corridor, presumably to find Steve and the others. Fury turned back to him and continued, “They won’t be told why, so you can do that another time. Right now you’re already late.”

His tone brooked no room for further delay, so Bucky nodded miserably and reached a hand out toward the teapot.

“You should get to gripping that thing a little tighter,” instructed Fury before his hand made contact. Bucky glanced down at the cat and toy in his arms and swallowed, prying the monkey out of Winter’s paws and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans. He expected Winter to fuss at him for it, but the gravity of the situation didn’t seem to be lost on her and she let it go easily. All it took was Bucky pulling her tighter for her to get the picture and curl close into his chest, her claws clinging onto his jacket.

Once he had Fury’s nod of approval, Bucky took hold of the Portkey. A second passed where nothing happened before the world blurred into a vortex of color, and he was jerked through space until his feet slammed down on something solid and hard. Bucky tumbled to the ground, the teapot falling and shattering against the tile floor of…

The antechamber to the office of the Minister for Magic. _Why the fuck did it bring me_ here _?_

“Bucky,” his dad’s voice breathed in something like relief. Half a second later, familiar hands were helping him to his feet. He’d lost his grip on Winter when he’d gone sprawling and looked down to see her pawing at his leg, crying up at him.

“Sorry, Win,” he muttered, scooping her into his arms again and hugging her tight. “Don’t think I like Portkeys much either.”

Winter pressed her face into his collarbone while he turned to see his dad behind him, watching with an expression somewhere between relief and fright. There seemed to be a lot of that going around today, but his father _never_ looked scared. “Dad, what’s going on?” he demanded, more out of fear than genuine curiosity.

“I’ll explain in a minute,” his dad evaded, putting both hands on his shoulders and frantically looking over him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, really stuck the landing.”

“That’s not what I meant, Buck.”

Swallowing, Bucky gave a half nod and murmured, “I’m okay. They were still trying to figure out what that curse was when I left.”

“I’m less concerned about that and more worried about them figuring out who sent it in the first place,” sighed his father. His lips were pursed in frustration as he pulled Bucky close and practically smothered him in his embrace. Bucky wasn’t complaining; he desperately needed the comfort, and from the lack of complaint from Winter, she did as well.

After a minute, his dad stepped back and sniffed, his eyes suspiciously red. “Come on, your mom and Becca are inside.”

His dad began to lead the way towards the closed office door, but Bucky dug his heels in at the last minute. “Dad…”

“Come on, we nee—“

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Aside from yelling at his mother in Fury’s office, it was the first time he’d stood up to one of his parents, but he refused to move another step until he had more information. All he knew right now was that someone tried to curse him; if he was leaving school early for just _that_ , they would have sent him home, not to the Ministry. That meant that something bigger was happening here, and odds were that it had been happening for a while but no one had thought to write him about it. This wasn’t a game, though; he didn’t want to be in the dark. Not anymore.

His father had always been good at reading him, and Bucky was glad he wasn’t pretending otherwise. Heaving a sigh, his dad motioned towards one of the couches and they took a seat. They didn’t speak at first since it looked like his dad needed a moment to figure out just what he was going to say. Bucky figured he could allow him that much.

When his father finally appeared to have gathered himself, Bucky watched his dad turn to look him dead in the eye as the latter began, “What I’m about to tell you is very serious and very scary. I need to know you can handle it first.” Bucky nodded automatically, which just made his dad shake his head. “No, think about it. What’s going on is worse than anything you could _possibly_ imagine, even what happened last time we were here like this.”

Bucky blinked, wondering, _What could be worse than seeing people set on fire?_

“Can you handle that?”

Taking a deep breath, Bucky waited a second before he nodded this time. “Yeah. I can handle it.”

His dad hesitated then pulled him forward by the back of the neck to kiss his forehead.

“Growing up so fast, kid,” he mumbled so softly Bucky almost missed it. After another second, he bluntly declared, “Someone’s been trying to kill your mom.”

Bucky felt his eyes widen until he thought they might actually fall out. “What?! How— _when_?”

“A few times in the last couple of months.”

“But they didn’t say anything in the _Prophet_ abo—“

“That’s because it was kept quiet,” interrupted his father. He didn’t bother to keep his voice low, and Bucky vaguely realized for the first time that they were alone in the room; there were no guards on the doors the way there had been two years ago. “It was little things, nothing too public. Cursed items sent to her office. A bottle of poisoned wine at a private party. _Gifts_ from anonymous senders with hexes. They didn’t try anything out in the open, and your mom didn’t want to make a statement about it. She said…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath to curtail the irritation Bucky could see forming in his expression. “She said that drawing attention to what was happening would just be feeding into it, that people would decide to vote for someone else who wasn’t likely to get killed before their first year in office was up. She believed that showing up to events alive and well would be enough to tell them to fuck off.”

“That’s…really stupid,” Bucky blurted out, shaking his head from side to side slowly.

His dad barked a humorless laugh. “That’s what I said.”

“Wouldn’t showing up alive just make them want to kill her _more_?”

Humming, his father shrugged. “You’d think. Then again, what happened is worse, if you ask me.”

Bucky just frowned, waiting. _What could possibly be worse than that?_

“From the looks of things, when they couldn’t take her out, they decided to branch out some. If they hurt her enough, maybe she wouldn’t want to run and would drop out of the race.”

He fell silent, but Bucky didn’t need him to continue to understand what he was saying. They’d talked about this in his Care of Magical Creatures class when Sam had asked Professor Ross why magical creatures could go instinct like Muggle ones could when they were so much more powerful.

“If a creature proves hard to kill,” she’d explained, “you kill everything around it instead until there’s nothing left—no food, no shelter, no others of its kind.”

Suddenly the cursed broomstick and Devil’s Snare made a whole lot of sense.

“They thought they could hurt me instead?” inquired Bucky softly, hardly daring to say the words. They sounded so selfish coming out of his mouth, but the thought was more frightening than any he’d had yet.

Nodding, his father sighed heavily, “And not just you. I was at a site the other day overseeing the installation of a new security system. While everyone was on lunch, a jackhammer got a mind of its own.” At Bucky’s shocked expression, he wryly joked, “If you ever wanna know what it’s like to be in a horror movie, try hiding in a closet while heavy machinery tries to kill you.”

“W-what about Becca?” Bucky whispered, his stomach roiling nervously. It steadied a moment later when his father shook his head.

“Nothing. At least not yet.”

Bucky heaved a sigh of relief, bending forward and closing his eyes against the nausea still gnawing at his stomach. He felt a hand on his back, rubbing in circles until he’d managed to calm down some; Winter abandoned grooming herself to lick at the underside of his jaw.

Everything was whirling around in his head until he began to feel dizzy on top of everything else. Someone had tried to kill his mother innumerable times and he was only finding out about it _now_. The same someone—or many someones, who could tell?—had attacked his dad and tried to curse _him_. Harking back to the last time they’d been in this position, Bucky couldn’t help remembering the fight his parents had had in his mom’s office way back then. They’d yelled at each other about the same sort of thing: people had died, and his mom was hell-bent on seeing her work continue nonetheless. And Bucky had been left sitting on the sofa, Becca and a much smaller Winter in his arms, wondering if it was really worth fighting for.

Two years later, he still pondered the exact same thing. Bucky couldn’t keep the thought to himself this time, turning his head to glance sideways at his dad.

“Is this _worth_ it?” he whispered.

The question didn’t require further clarification as his father evidently understood exactly what he was talking about without asking. He was silent for a long time, staring down at the ground in front of him before the side of his mouth turned up in a solemn imitation of a half-smile. When he looked back at Bucky, there was a steely glint to his eyes.

“Not to me, it isn’t,” his dad answered just as quietly. “When I was in the army, I took the risk on myself. And I get that that was a pretty shitty thing to do—I could’ve left you guys growing up without a dad. But I did it to make sure you were safe. This…” He shook his head. “This isn’t the same thing. If I could take you and your sister and run for the hills to get as far away from this fucking election as possible, I _would_.”

Bucky gaped at him. His father rarely cursed so openly, and he’d _never_ —not once—spoken less than indifferently about his mom’s position in the Wizarding world. It was like discovering a new side to his dad, one that he was trusting Bucky to see without judging him.

After a brief silence, his dad chuckled flatly. “But I _can’t_. This world is…it’s beyond _anything_ I could possibly protect you guys from. We’re not talking about terrorists half a world away—these are people who can go anywhere, do anything, and you’ll never see ‘em coming.” He paused, rubbing his head wearily and leaving his hair standing up all over the place. “So no, it’s not worth it to me. You and your sister are all I care about, and if it’s a difference between you and the rest of the world, then fuck the world.”

Slowly, Bucky disentangled Winter from his jacket and set her down on his father’s lap, where she bumped his chin insistently for pets. Wrapping his arms around his dad’s waist, Bucky held on tight when his dad returned the embrace.

“Love you, Dad,” mumbled Bucky into his shoulder. His father squeezed him impossibly tighter.

“I love you too, Bucky. More than you could possibly know.”

 

***

 

“As you know, the Ministry has a number of properties throughout the continent of Europe. They’re all very remote and highly defensible. We’d keep the number of people who knew about your location to a minimum just in case we’ve got any leaks in the ship, if you know what I mean.”

Bucky’s mom glowered at Minister Stern as if he were the most repulsive poisonous snail in the tank at the Magical Menagerie. “What you’re forgetting here is that to go into hiding means dropping my candidacy. I won’t be able to campaign or even be present for the election proceedings.”

Stern’s shrug was one of the most insincere gestures Bucky had ever seen.

“You wouldn’t _have_ to drop out necessarily.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Stern,” she growled. “That’s exactly what I would have to do.”

“You could come back as soon as the election is over, whether you win or not,” Stern attempted to appease her with a casual wave of his hand.

Bucky’s father scoffed on the couch beside him. “Right, like they won’t try again as soon as she goes to take office.”

Stern’s eyebrows twitched. “Well, there _is_ that.”

“This is ridiculous!” exclaimed Bucky’s mother, folding her arms and pacing across the office. “These...these _terrorists_ think that threatening me and _my family_ is an appropriate way to see to it that I stay out of that chair. They can show their support with a bloody _vote_ —that’s the whole purpose of the democratic process, isn’t it? But no, they intend to make it so I can never run again. How can I let that stand? How can I just vanish and drop everything and _let them win_!”

“Well, admittedly,” Stern cut in, his expression turning legitimately uncomfortable, “it’s not giving them _everything_ they want. You’d still be the undersecretary, just working remotely. I don’t think Pierce has the following to win at this point. It’s not like you would be out of the Ministry fo—“

“Fantastic.” His mom threw up her arms and laughed scornfully. “It’s not giving them what they want if I throw in the towel and give you your victory. Bloody brilliant, Stern. Well done.”

“This is the position we’re in! There’s no arguing about that.”

She leaned over his desk, palms pressed to the wood. “So you’re asking me to eat shit instead. I hold the second-highest office in the British Wizarding world. I don’t eat shit. I _serve_ it.”

“Then _we’ll_ go.”

She whipped around to gape at Bucky’s father, who stared stony-faced right back at her. Becca was on his other side, huddled under his arm, while Bucky and Winter were curled into the corner of the sofa. His dad hadn’t been very vocal throughout the entire discussion, but after the conversation they’d had in the antechamber, Bucky recognized that he’d finally reached his limit.

“George…?” His mom’s voice was small and almost timid, but it had no effect.

“I’ll take the kids and go. I’m not letting them get hurt just so you can be Queen Shit of the United States of Winnie-land.”

Sputtering incoherently, his mother didn’t appear to have an answer for that. Stern grasped the opportunity to escape with both hands, muttering something about having skipped dinner and leaving them alone in the room.

The silence was deafening as his parents stared at each other like two people who had never seen the other before in their lives. His mom was clearly struggling to find her footing with a new yet oh so familiar opponent.

“George, this isn’t the way,” she finally sighed, collapsing onto the opposite sofa and facing the three of them. “If we do this, we’re abandoning everything we’ve stood up for.”

“No, Winnie, we’re _really_ not,” countered his dad incredulously. “We’re not abandoning _anything_. Stern said you still get to keep your job, which means you can still push for legislation and do everything you want.”

“Not that he’ll approve it.”

“It stands a _chance_. If we leave, you still have exactly what you’ve always had. If we don’t, think about we’ll _lose_.”

“We’ve managed up until now,” his mother argued heatedly. Bucky thought her stubbornness could actually rival Steve’s at this point. “We can put more protection on the house. Bucky is at Hogwarts—“

“Which isn’t nearly as safe as we thought!”

“They didn’t get past the wards, George. Let’s not blow this out of proportion.”

“ _Blow it out of proportion_?! Someone tried to _kill_ our _son_ and you think I’m blowing this _out of proportion_?!”

Sighing, she tried to backtrack, “That’s _not_ what I meant—“

“It’s exactly what you meant. Well, what happens when they _find_ a way to get past the wards next time, huh? What happens if they figure out a way to get something in or to get him _out_? There are no wards in Hogsmeade! All it takes is one trip and then it’s done. They don’t _need_ to get past the wards—they already have other ways, and it’s only a matter of time before they take advantage of them. And I’m not even going to mention the fucking shitstorm that went down at work the other day.”

They yelled back and forth awhile longer. After a bit, Bucky tuned them out, pulling Winter’s monkey out of his pocket and waving its hand in her face. She played a close-quarters tug-of-war with him before wrapping her paws around the stuffed animal and hugging it tight. Smiling sadly, Bucky scratched between her ears and hunched down a bit in his seat so she could lie curled up on his chest.

“I’ve never asked you for anything,” he tuned back in to hear his father saying, his voice now quietly pleading. The shift in tone seemed to affect his mother more than anything else; her face fell slightly and a lot of the fire in her eyes dissipated.

“George—“

“I’ve done _everything_ you’ve asked. When you wanted to move back to London, I packed up the kids and went. When you said you wanted to run for Minister, I supported you every step of the way. When you asked me to come with you to campaign, I put my work on hold to go. Now I am asking you for _one thing_. Just _one_. I’m _begging_ you not to make me split this family apart. Because I swear to God, Winnie, I will take the kids and let Stern find a place for us to go. If I could just leave without whoever these people are finding us, I would do that, but I know it’s too late for it now. I missed my chance, and that’s not a mistake I’m going to make again.

“So, _please_ ,” he beseeched her, his expression desperate. “Please stop thinking about the Wizarding world just long enough to think about what’s best for your family. _Please_.”

Somewhere during his speech, Bucky’s mom had started crying, tears streaming silently down her cheeks as she listened. It was a testament to just how confusing the whole situation was—and had been for so long—that Bucky couldn’t actually tell if she was crying because of _them_ or because of what she was setting aside if she did as his dad requested. He really, _really_ wanted to believe it was the former.

After a few minutes of soundless staring, his mother ultimately nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll go.”

 

***

 

The house was just outside of Galati, Romania, across the Danube River. When Stern had said that it was remote, he didn’t mention it was also _enormous_. They would have no neighbors anywhere in sight, and the house was magically fortified to ensure that it was invisible to anyone who wasn’t told it was there. (That was a stipulation Bucky’s mom had insisted on. She’d told the Minister that if they were doing this, they were doing it the right way.) The view was spectacular, currently empty farmland on all sides, but the house itself was just as much a wonder.

It was practically a mansion. As soon as they walked in the front door, there was a grand staircase with two curving sides leading up to the second level. Immediately to the right was an office fit for the Minister himself; to the left was a living room complete with a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall, two couches, three comfortable-looking armchairs, and a coffee table. There was an entertainment center underneath the television stacked with the movies and video games Bucky had at home, which he assumed had been magically transported from London to their current lodgings. Walking through the doorway at the back of the living room led to an enormous, professional-grade kitchen with stainless-steel appliances that all appeared to be brand new. (His parents gawked at the setup the way Bucky would have been staring at a new broomstick.) Past the kitchen was a marginally less impressive breakfast nook (which led out to a deck and patio) and dining room.

Up the stairs was a hall that led in two directions. On the left was the master bedroom (which was beyond description, as was the en suite bathroom), and two guest bedrooms. To the left were two other bedrooms (each with their own en suites as well) and a spacious guest bath. The bedrooms were at least three times bigger than the ones they had at home in London, and like the living room, they were already packed with Becca and Bucky’s things from home. His Hogwarts trunk and broomstick had also arrived and were sitting just in front of the walk-in closet.

It was stunning. It was amazing.

It was a prison.

Bucky berated himself for not realizing sooner that going into hiding would mean _not_ going back to Hogwarts. It wasn’t until he’d been gaping at the enormity of the house and saying that he couldn’t wait to tell Steve and his other friends that his parents exchanged a hesitant and pitying look and told him the consequences of their decision. He wouldn’t be going back to school; for as long as they were to remain hidden, he wasn’t allowed to contact his friends in any way (including Skype) lest the communication be intercepted and their location determined by someone out to hurt them. His mother would continue her correspondence with the Ministry through secure channels, but that was it. His father had been forced to take an indefinite (unpaid) leave of absence, they’d removed Becca from her Muggle school, and none of them were allowed to leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary. His mother had said that the Ministry arranged for everything they would need to be delivered to them.

So it was a prison. A shiny, gilded prison where the inmates stayed of their own free will.

And the worst part? The whole place was decked out in their family Christmas decorations as if they had always lived there.

Bucky hadn’t been able to stand it and escaped to his new room the first possible moment he could. As soon as the door was closed behind him (he may have slammed it just a _little_ , so sue him), he threw himself down on the bed and resorted to his old favorite pastime: wall-staring. After all, this was like being grounded on steroids given how the old rules applied: no Steve and no going out. Hell, the only thing that was different this time was that he could play as many video games and watch as much television as he wanted. It was a piss poor consolation prize.

Winter didn’t appear to like their new digs either. She’d been fine while they were touring the house, before it became apparent that this was going to be home for the foreseeable future. When Bucky had put her down to eat, her reproachful glare had been hard to handle, but his mom absolutely refused to let him hold Winter at the table no matter how upset his cat was. So, left to her own devices, she’d abandoned them to their meager, tasteless dinner (Bucky may have been exaggerating slightly) to explore the house on her own. By the time he made it upstairs, she was sitting in the corner of the room glaring around at everything as if it had personally offended her.

Needless to say, he didn’t get far into his wall-staring before she was up on the bed shoving her butt in his face.

“What? It’s not _my_ fault, you brat,” he grumbled, pushing until she let him breathe again.

She turned around to glower at him and meowed loud and long.

“Yeah, you can tell that to Mom.”

Bucky rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling morosely. (There were no stars to be found there.) He felt more than saw Winter wedge her head under his arm and snuggle into his side, apparently forgiving him in favor of making the most of it together.

And they spent every night after that the same way. Bucky would keep up appearances during the day while his mom worked in her office and his dad had nothing better to do than see to it that he and Becca were okay. They watched a ton of movies, and Bucky had creamed him at a _lot_ of video games. (Mario Kart against parents was the highlight of his day anymore.) Then every night, after dinner had been eaten and his parents could distract themselves with talking or whatever else grown-ups were wont to do when they had nowhere else to go, he retired to his room and stared at the ceiling with Winter.

That was the only time he allowed himself to wonder what his friends were doing right at that very moment. Soon enough, Christmas was only two days away—had T’Challa gone home, or was he staying at Hogwarts like he had the previous year? Would Clint be staying with his grown-up brother Barney, or would he be with his parents for the holidays? Was Sam going to see the National Christmas Tree this year, or would they be visiting his family in New York instead of spending Christmas in D.C.?

_What are Sarah and Steve doing right now? Are they having a good time? Do they even miss us?_

A soft knock on the door forced him out of his thoughts. Bucky quickly wiped away the stray tear that had escaped and was running down his right temple before calling, “Come in.”

His mother’s head popped inside a moment later, a surprisingly sheepish smile on her face, before she asked, “Can we talk?”

Bucky was going to say _it’s your house_ , but it wasn’t, so that comeback would fall flat. Instead he just nodded wordlessly, which only served to increase his mom’s visible unease. When she entered the room, though, Bucky couldn’t help laughing: she was carrying a plate piled high with peanut butter cookies. He’d been so lost in his own head that he hadn’t even smelled the scent of baked goods wafting through the enormous house.

Smiling, his mom set the plate down on the bed beside him and perched on the edge of the mattress. Winter was up like a shot to sniff at the plate, her eyes comically darting back and forth between it and Bucky as if asking for permission. Bucky rolled his eyes patiently and picked up a cookie, breaking off a tiny piece and letting the cat eat it out of his hand. She had barely gotten it down before she shook her head wildly and gagged like she was spitting up a hairball, growling in aggravation.

“Hey, you asked for it,” he shrugged, shoving the rest of the cookie into his mouth with little finesse. “Thanks, Ma.”

“What would Christmas be without peanut butter cookies?” she asked as if it was obvious. Her tone turned slightly despairing when she added, “I know they’re not the same as Sarah’s, but—“

“They’re great, really,” interrupted Bucky, trying to smile. It must not have worked very well, because his mom wrapped her arms around him a second later.

“This isn’t going to be easy, I know that,” she whispered into his hair. “But we’ll get through this.”

A lump had formed in his throat, so he just nodded and hugged her back. She didn’t seem ready to let go anytime soon.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“’S not your fault, Mom. Shit happens.”

“Watch your mouth,” she scolded halfheartedly, pulling away and sniffing. “Anyway, the cookies aren’t the only reason I came up here.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Bucky watched a number of emotions cross her face, none of them all too reassuring. He gave her a minute to collect herself, welcoming back a perturbed Winter with her favorite pets and snuggles (she quickly forgave him), and then prompted, “If you tell me Christmas is cancelled this year, you’re not getting out of giving me presents _that_ easy.”

His mother laughed, the first time he’d heard her _real_ laugh since he’d seen her at his Quidditch game, and assured him, “Don’t worry, your presents will be here right on schedule.”

“Maybe a little _earlier_ than sch—“

“Don’t press your luck.”

Bucky put his hands in the air, palms facing forward in innocent capitulation. His mom rolled her eyes at his antics, which appeared to have done their job and brought some of the sparkle back to her eyes.

It dimmed slightly as they fell silent, but she took a deep breath and held herself taller as if that might give her more wherewithal to say what she’d come to tell him. “After the holidays, you won’t be going back to Hogwarts.”

_Rub it in, why don’tcha._

“But you can still go back to school.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bucky’s heart skipped a beat as he slowly inquired, “How?”

Visibly steeling herself, she elucidated, “Your father and I are friends with a couple who live in Russia. They were our neighbors when we first moved to London—the Petrovs, remember?” Bucky vaguely recalled the name, so he shrugged and nodded. “Well… They work for the Russian Ministry of Magic, so we’ve been in touch since they moved back to Moscow. They heard about what’s happening and sent word through the Ministry that they’d like to do anything that they can to help.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s…nice of them. What’s that got to do with school?”

His mom paused a moment before taking both of his hands in hers.

_Shit. This is bad._

“Wizarding students in Russia go to Durmstrang Institute. Your father and I have arranged…if you like…for you to be enrolled as their nephew under a false name.”

That didn’t sound so bad, which meant it wasn’t the half of it. “I’m guessing there’s a _but_ here?”

“ _But_ …” she allowed with a small, gloomy smile. “You would have to go live with them when you’re not at school.”

“What?!” Bucky exclaimed, his eyes popping wide. “Why couldn’t I just stay here?”

Sighing, his mom gripped his hands tighter. “Imagine it: you’re already enrolling midyear of your third year, claiming to be related to a couple of high-level Russian Ministry officials who haven’t said a word about you before? Appearances would have to be kept up. If you just went from here to Durmstrang and back, someone would notice. If we’re going to do this, we need to create the illusion that you _are_ their family.”

“But if I’m pretending to be their _nephew_ , why wouldn’t I be staying with my _parents_?” he spat, his confusion fueling his anger. Or was it fear?

“Tatiana’s older sister and her husband died in 1996,” she began, Bucky cutting her off numbly when he did the math.

“The year I was born.”

“Exactly,” confirmed his mother before recommencing. “They died in an accident in England, so it will be easy enough to say the birth of their son wasn’t properly registered for you to receive a letter for attendance.”

“Then where did I spend the last thirteen years?”

“With an aunt on your late father’s side. Her family raised you but moved around a lot, so they decided to provide your education at home rather than sending you to a magical academy. That, as it turns out, was too great a strain so they’re sending you to live with the Petovs and attend Durmstrang to complete your education. You still plan to visit them during your vacations—and by them I mean _us_ ,” she clarified firmly. “But the Petrovs will be your primary caregivers for the duration of your schooling.”

By the time she’d finished reciting his fake history, Bucky’s head was spinning with the new information. All he could manage to say was, “This is _so weird_.”

Huffing out something like a laugh, his mother nodded. “It _is_ a bit strange. It’ll take some getting used to if you decide this is the path you want to take.”

“And what happens if I don’t wanna go?” he inquired after a short hesitation, biting his bottom lip nervously. Would he never go to school again? Would he never get a job in the magical _or_ Muggle worlds because he didn’t have an education?

“If you decided not to go, I would teach you here instead. Books and materials can be acquired from the Ministry. They may even be able to have a curriculum and assignments drawn up by some of your previous professors that I can use.”

_Which means it would be more work for everyone_ , he thought morosely. It was the more appealing option, no doubt about it. He had no interest in going to live with people who were essentially strangers for all that he remembered them and starting all over again at a new school that wasn’t Hogwarts.

But he _couldn’t_ be selfish. His mom had given up her shot at being Minister to keep them safe; his dad had basically quit his job. He couldn’t put the burden of his education on them on top of everything else they had to deal with right now.

So, as much as he felt like throwing up at the thought, Bucky managed a strained smile as he hoarsely agreed, “I’ll go to Durmstrang.”

The wide grin he got in return was very obviously bittersweet, and he leaned heavily into his mother’s embrace so he didn’t have to see it. If it meant she didn’t notice him blinking back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him, then all the better for both of them.

“We’ll make this work, darling, you’ll see,” she murmured, rocking him back and forth a bit before pulling away to survey his face carefully. “But first things first: we need to do something about this handsome face of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Winifred's line about eating shit and George's rebuttal about the "Queen Shit of the United States of Winnie-land" are adapted versions of quotes from "Political Animals." 
> 
> From this point on, the story is going to get much darker than it has been up till now. There will be plenty of angst and hurt with not so much comfort going on. So...it should be fun! :)


	14. Becoming Yasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated!

The first time Bucky met the Petrovs, he was still James Barnes.

Through a complicated series of communications and travel arrangements, Mikhail and Tatiana were allowed to come to Romania between Christmas and New Year’s to meet him and get to work on his cover. Apparently, the story itself was not enough. If he was going to pretend to be someone who had traveled all over the world and would be living in Russia full time when he wasn’t in school, it was sort of necessary that he speak the language at least mostly fluently.

They got to work on that right away: the Petrovs arrived the day after Christmas, and Mikhail immediately began giving Bucky lessons in Russian. He picked up the speaking portion quickly enough (traveling all over the world with his mother had given him the ability to learn languages relatively easily, so it had its upside), but he had to admit that he was absolute shit at writing it. Why did they have to use Cyrillic? What was wrong with using the _normal_ alphabet? Mikhail frequently scolded him for his grumbling, but his amusement was evident every time Bucky threw down his pencil and pointed angrily at his paper.

While they were practicing his language skills in the living room, Bucky’s dad laughing at his attempts and Becca trying to pick up what she could for fun, Tatiana and his mom were holed up in the office. He wasn’t quite sure what they were doing in there, and every time they walked out and looked right at him, he got a little more positive that he probably didn’t _want_ to know either. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before he found out and proved himself correct: he _definitely_ wanted to remain ignorant on this one.

The Petrovs (or Petrov and Petrova, because _Russian_ ) went home on New Year’s Eve, but they were back a little over a week later. They’d had business of their own to conduct with their Ministry, which meant they couldn’t stay the whole time to see the job through. Bucky’s dad forced him to practice speaking Russian whenever he could, though, even though no one else in the house spoke it to tell him if he was right. After the first day of _that_ debacle, his mother cast a spell that would translate his Russian into English with some admittedly hilarious results.

When his fake aunt and uncle returned, they were impressed with his vocabulary and gave his language acquisition their tentative seal of approval—he still had time to work on it before his Durmstrang interview, anyway.

Which left him free to be dragged into his mother’s office with her and Tatiana.

Bucky sat down in the leather spinning chair behind his mom’s desk and tried not to make it obvious how uncomfortable he was with them staring at his face for at least ten minutes before they said anything.

“We can angle his jaw a bit more, I think,” mused Tatiana, reaching over to lift his chin higher in the air.

“And make his skin lighter—he’s too tan,” his mother added. She put a finger to her chin and narrowed her eyes in close scrutiny of his complexion.

Eyes widening, Bucky timidly inquired, “W-what are we doing?”

His mom blinked, her expression going slightly surprised as if she’d forgotten he was even in the room, before offering him a cheerless smile. “You can’t very well go to Durmstrang looking the way you normally do.”

“Why not?” he demanded. _I have to change the way I_ look _now?_

“Baby, your face was all over the _Daily Prophet_ this summer, plus those articles after you went back to school,” she elucidated remorsefully. “Changing your name and teaching you Russian won’t keep someone from recognizing James Barnes waltzing into the school.”

Tatiana shrugged. “Besides, it would help to have some family resemblance to make the story more believable,” she pointed out in her thick Russian accent.

_Why does this feel like it’s way more than I agreed to?_

Swallowing hard, Bucky nodded wordlessly and stared down at the floor. He was only allowed to sulk for a moment, however, before his mother prodded him to lift his eyes back up to meet her matching grey ones—which probably wouldn’t match so much by the time they were through.

“We’re not going to do any major changes, darling,” she whispered reassuringly. “And the spell isn’t permanent. You can easily remove it anytime with a General Counter-Spell. You know how to do those, right?”

Bucky nodded again.

“Then that’s that. We’re just going to make a couple of _slight_ alterations, baby. Just enough so that if someone sees you, they won’t do the math.”

“The spell itself will be difficult, though,” admitted Tatiana, folding her arms and frowning. “I don’t think he’ll be able to do it himself.”

Sighing, his mom straightened back up. “Then we’ll administer it before he leaves for school, and you can take it off once you come home.”

“I have to stay that way _all the time_?” he groused, slouching down lower in his seat.

“We can try to teach you the spell, but it’s likely you won’t be able to do it until you’re older and your magic has developed more. It’s not a Water-Making Spell,” his mother rebuked him without heat. “This will make that look easy.”

_Awesome. This just keeps getting better and better._

They went back to work after that, Bucky doing absolutely nothing aside from staring into the middle distance while the women chattered away about his various physical features and threw out ideas one after another. First they weren’t sure if they should change his height—how would that affect his natural growth patterns?

Discard.

How about his weight—they could make him more muscular, but it might look incongruous depending on how he filled out as he got older.

Discard.

They could also make him skinnier, but would that impact his body’s natural development too much?

Discard.

Ultimately, after many trips around the same circle, they decided not to alter his body in any way and focused on just his face, for which he was both disappointed and infinitely grateful. He didn’t want to be changed _at all_ , but if it was a matter of making it so that his entire body looked and felt different, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take that long-term. While they’d deliberated over thinning him out, he couldn’t help thinking about Steve and wondering how he would look if he was that skinny—it was so unfathomable that he gave up fairly quickly.

They must have been in the office for a few hours, Bucky getting increasingly bored the longer they debated the merits of long hair versus short hair, before they finally came to an agreement and the wands came out. Bucky was no stranger to a wand being pointed in his face; they’d practiced all sorts of charms and spells on each other at Hogwarts, after all. Still, it never felt spectacular staring up the wooden shaft.

“Close your eyes, darling,” his mother prompted him soothingly. He obeyed, thinking maybe not having to look would make it easier.

_This is…surprisingly worse._

He listened as his mom rattled off an incantation, but he wasn’t able to catch all the words or even come close to understanding the ones he _did_ hear. It was definitely a more complicated spell than anything he’d ever witnessed.

Before she’d entirely finished, his face began to burn and itch. It wasn’t that it _hurt_ per se, but it was certainly uncomfortable enough that he couldn’t resist raising a hand and rubbing at his cheek. He could feel his face pinching up against the sensation in spite of his attempts to remain impassive.

A few seconds later, it was over.

“Open your eyes, darling.”

There was something in the way she said it that told him he probably didn’t want to. He took a deep breath to steel himself before obeying anyway, blinking rapidly as his eyes readjusted to the light in the room.

Nothing seemed different, not that he’d be able to tell since he couldn’t very well see his own face right now. The only noticeable change was that his hair was hanging down like two dark curtains on the sides of his face; the color was just barely a shade darker than it normally was. Frowning, he raised a hand to tuck one side behind his ears only to find that his skin was paler than Steve in the middle of the winter. His eyes darted back to his mom’s face where she was watching with a heartbroken expression that she probably thought she was hiding. Tatiana, on the other hand, was observing him with critical objectivity the way someone would look at a painting: curious, but ultimately just critiquing a façade.

“Shall we put him to the test?” she asked, gently prodding his mom out of her stupor. The latter pasted a smile on her face that came nowhere near reaching her eyes and moved to open the door.

Bucky followed them out of the office, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the spell. He hadn’t seen himself yet, but he _knew_ he didn’t look the same. The thought alone made him feel like he wasn’t really all there, like _James Barnes_ was already being taken away and somebody else put in his place.

The sensation only intensified when he walked into the living room and saw his father’s jaw drop. Becca just looked confused for a second before her eyes blew wide, her eyebrows pulling in.

“Bucky?” she whispered. Did she sound horrified, or was he projecting his own emotions onto her?

“Yeah,” he managed to reply after clearing his throat, his voice gravelly.

Becca didn’t say anything else, but she wasn’t quite able to take her eyes off him either. She was holding Winter in her lap, clearly having been playing with her before his entrance. His cat glanced reproachfully up at her before turning her attention to where he still stood frozen in the doorway, her big eyes blinking a few times as she cocked her head to the side. A moment passed where nothing else happened before Winter hopped down from the couch and cautiously approached him, sniffing at the leg of his jeans. He could tell she was confused, but apparently his scent was enough to reassure her, because she started pawing at his knees to get him to pick her up.

He obliged quickly, letting Winter poke at his face with her nose and sniff him to solidify the fact that he was still the same person in her cat mind. Meowing unhappily at the turn of events, she gave him perhaps the most unimpressed look he’d ever seen on an animal—including Igorha, the Queen of Exasperation—and shoved her head into her favorite spot up under his jaw.

“Well, it looks like Winter’s on board,” his mother murmured beside him. “George?”

His dad blinked at the sound of his name, smiling in a strained sort of way that completely encapsulated how Bucky was feeling. He didn’t seem to know quite how to put what he was thinking into words, though, and ended up settling for, “I think it’ll work.”

Mikhail was nodding in agreement from where he stood behind the couch, expression calm yet sympathetic.

Bucky excused himself to his room not long after, unable to take the uncomfortable atmosphere in the living room anymore. He held Winter tightly all the way up the stairs; sensing his discomfort, she just snuggled closer into his neck the way she always did when she knew he was upset. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know if Durmstrang allowed pets or if his mom and dad would let him bring Winter even if they did—she’d been all over the campaign trail too. He honestly wasn’t sure if he could handle them changing the way _she_ looked when everything else would already be so different.

_One step at a time,_ he told himself firmly as he attempted to calm his breathing. This wasn’t something to panic over, at least not yet. He had something else to do first.

When he closed the door to his room, Bucky paused before crossing the few tentative steps over to his bathroom and flicking on the lights, eyes on the ground. It took a few tries before he could shift his gaze to the mirror and survey the damage, breathing deeply all the while, but he eventually managed it.

What he saw was someone he didn’t know.

The person who stared back at him from the mirror had the same build and the same facial shape, but the accompanying features were strange to him. As he’d seen earlier, his hair was slightly darker than was natural and long enough to pull into a ponytail; his skin was paler than it had ever been before. His eyes had changed from their normal grey to the same dark chocolate brown Tatiana had with thinner eyebrows to frame them, and their shape was slightly rounder than he was used to seeing. It was a sharp contrast to his newly squared, defined jaw.

He wasn’t _completely_ unrecognizable—someone who knew him well could probably see the similarities if they squinted—but there was enough of a difference that he doubted anyone would think he was James Barnes if they saw him like this in passing.

_Okay, moment of truth…_

Shifting Winter in his arms roused her from her roost and she peered into the mirror as he pulled his wand out of his back pocket. He observed the boy in his mirror doing the same, staring into brown eyes before pointing his wand at his own face and muttering, “ _Finite._ ”

It was like watching ripples on the surface of a lake: his features wavered, starting from his nose and moving outward. He felt that same itching again, but it wasn’t accompanied by the burning sensation this time. (There was a certain poetic irony in the fact that becoming himself again wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the opposite.) After a few moments, he was seeing his natural face in the mirror again, and Winter purred happily in approval.

“Yeah. It sucks,” he whispered to her sadly, ignoring the tears that began to form in his reflection’s grey eyes.

 

***

 

The same day in late January that Minister Stern won the election was the day Bucky moved in with the Petrovs.

His mom had been ranting all morning about how it was at least a good thing that he was still in office since a Pierce administration _would set us all back at least two centuries, George, honestly._ His father listened for a while, but eventually he descended into the _Smile and Nod_ stage where that was about all he could contribute to the already one-sided conversation. Bucky and Becca had just sat at the table all the while, grinning at each other over bowls of Count Chocula (freshly imported from the States, thanks very much to the Ministry of Magic).

“Now, James.”

His name caught his attention as she shifted gears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to be nervous,” began his mom uselessly—it always had the _opposite_ effect when she said that. “But remember, you have your Durmstrang interview tomorrow, so you’ll need to be on your best behavior. Leave it to that vindictive prick to give you a hard time enrolling just because he’s bitter about not winning the election.”

“Is that likely?” he asked with a frown. If everything they’d spent the last month doing was going to be for nothing, he thought he might just scream.

“I honestly don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past the man.”

“What your mother is _trying_ to say,” interjected his dad, rolling his eyes when his mom couldn’t see it, “is that you should just do your best and what happens happens. Okay?”

Snorting at his father’s much less stressful encouragement, Bucky nodded and finished his cereal just in time for his mother to realize they were running late to get him to Moscow—not that he’d been eating his breakfast as slow as humanly possible on _purpose_ or anything. They’d set up a Portkey the night before, and the Petrovs had already informed their Ministry that their nephew would be coming to stay with them for the foreseeable future. Bucky had been drilled so thoroughly in his fake past that he could recite it from memory now:

His name was Yasha Smirnov. He was thirteen but would be turning fourteen in March. His parents were killed when he was a month old in an accident no one had told him much about, but apparently it wasn’t pretty. His father’s sister had taken him in, but her husband traveled constantly all over the globe doing work for the Russian version of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They decided that when Yasha came of age to go to a magical school, it would be more beneficial for them to complete his education through homeschooling to avoid the chaos of trying to get him to and from school at the various necessary times of the year. They managed for the first two and a half years, but it was beginning to become a strain on the family and his uncle’s work to worry about his education while they were constantly in motion. They got in contact with Tatiana, his maternal aunt, and her husband Mikhail. The Russian magical diplomats were more than happy to take him in and see to it that he completed his education at one of the finest institutions in the Wizarding world: Durmstrang Institute.

Yes, he was aware that his last name sounded like the vodka. No, there was no relation.

_Nailed it._

His mother quizzed him one more time, choking back the tears that could be seen clinging to her eyes sporadically ever since she’d woken up that morning, and nodded firmly when he got all the facts right. At least from this end of things, they were prepared to pull this off.

Now he just had to get through an interview and a few years of school and he’d be _home free_.

“All right,” his mother sniffled, visibly attempting to pull herself together. “Time to go.”

His dad had been quieter than usual for the last couple of days, yet every time Bucky asked him if his dad would rather he stay home, the answer had been a resolute no. His father knew how important his education was and wanted him to have that opportunity in spite of the epic shitstorm they were all currently entrenched in. (A small, shameless part of Bucky had hoped that he would tell him _yes, stay home_. He fought down the disappointment when it didn’t happen.)

Becca wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her emotions as their mother was and was openly crying as she launched herself into his arms and clung tightly to him. Bucky hugged her back, closing his eyes and memorizing every second.

“You take care of Ma and Dad, you got it, Squirt?” he muttered in her ear.

Giggling wetly, she pulled back just enough to nod. Bucky smiled, wiped the tears off her cheeks, and kissed her forehead.

His mother was similarly emotional by that point, embracing him like a boa constrictor before releasing him to his dad, who was quite obviously attempting to maintain a stiff upper lip about the whole thing. He knew this wasn’t exactly what Bucky wanted and that he wasn’t the least bit excited to be leaving them here, so it was no wonder he was trying not to make it more difficult than it already was.

“You write us, okay?” he ordered gruffly. “Send it to the Petrovs and they’ll forward it to us.”

“I will,” promised Bucky. He didn’t care if it was childish to be holding onto his parents like he’d never see them again. He did it anyway.

Ultimately, though, he couldn’t put it off forever. There was a matryoshka doll on the coffee table in the living room—Bucky wondered if they actually _paid_ people at the Portkey Office for that level of irony—and it stared up at him with an indifferent expression that offered no comfort. Winter was perched right next to it, glaring in a way that indicated she definitely remembered being shaken up the last time they’d traveled via Portkey. That made Bucky smile a little and he plucked her up to wrap her in his jacket this time, just in case.

Like a bandage, they tore through final goodbyes quickly and then Bucky was hurtling through the void again before he landed, more gracefully this time, in the foyer of an unfamiliar house. Or, more accurately, _apartment_. Tatiana and Mikhail lived in the middle of Moscow and were partial to the smaller accommodations in order to be closer to what they loved in the city, or so they had said when they visited. It was obvious that the apartment had been magically enhanced, though; it was missing a formal dining room and two bedrooms (and their attached bathrooms), but aside from that and being only one level, it was nearly the size of the mansion he’d left behind in Romania. There was less marble and more luxurious carpet, but that just made it feel a little warmer.

Although they’d agreed on the time of his arrival, there was no one waiting to greet him. He assumed that meant they trusted him enough to get settled on his own. Nevertheless, he virtually tiptoed down the hallway off the living room like a thief sneaking through a restricted area. Down the attached corridor, the bedroom on the left (which he figured was the master bedroom) was closed off, but the door on the right was open. A peek inside confirmed his suspicions when he saw the guest room already housed his school trunk and other belongings that had been sent ahead from Romania. The room was just a little smaller than the one he’d left behind, but it still felt equally spacious. There was a double bed along the right wall with two nightstands, and a dresser on the opposite side of the room. A decently sized flat screen television was mounted in the corner right beside a sliding door leading out to a balcony with a view of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

“Wow,” he breathed, allowing himself to gawk at the view for a minute until Winter began squirming restlessly in his jacket. The second he unzipped it, she was hopping down to explore the room with narrowed eyes. He felt terrible for moving her to so many new places in such a short time, but unfortunately there was nothing to be done for it—and it would only happen again as soon as he started at Durmstrang.

Two days from now. If his interview tomorrow went well.

He pushed the thought out of his head the moment after it entered, physically shaking himself. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on that. If he bombed it, he’d get to go home and be with his family. If he did all right, he’d get to go back to school with only a missed month under his belt.

Okay, it was a school without his friends, his favorite professors, and the comfort of being somewhere he knew and loved already, but he had to stop being a baby and get past that.

_When the world goes to shit, sometimes you gotta just grab a shovel. Suck it up, Barnes. Or Smirnov. Whatever._

 

***

 

“At this time, what progress have you made in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three_?”

“Halfway, sir.”

“And _Intermediate Transfiguration_?”

“Also halfway, sir.”

Pierce nodded in a satisfied sort of way. If he noticed how Bucky’s voice wavered a bit on the Russian pronunciations in his apprehension, he had no visible reaction to it. Instead he glanced back over Bucky’s (forged) homeschooling records, which Minister Stern had had drawn up based on his Hogwarts transcripts.

It had been nerve-wracking to walk into Durmstrang, which was situated in the mountains _somewhere_ where it was apparently _dark most of the day during the winter_. (Why the hell did people even _live_ where the sun didn’t shine much for part of the year? It made absolutely no sense unless you were a villain in search of a lair or something, or at least that was Bucky’s _entirely justified_ opinion on the matter.) The castle was enormous like Hogwarts, but the crest was different and there was an air of something essentially _off_ about the place that Bucky couldn’t quite identify. He’d stopped trying when he realized it was most likely how he would feel about _any_ school that wasn’t Hogwarts at this point. There was also a lake behind the school with a huge ship moored like a specter in the shadows. He hoped it was like the Forbidden Forest and students weren’t allowed to go there, especially if it was as creepy in real daylight as it was in this half-dark hell.

They’d been escorted inside by a dumpy professor in round spectacles; he reminded Bucky of Professor Banner only more suspicious. The man had led them up to the headmaster’s office, and the second before he introduced himself as Yasha Smirnov was when he realized that the spell changed his _appearance_ but not his _voice_. He had a moment of irrational panic until he remembered that during all the pomp and circumstance, he’d never spoken in a capacity where he was recorded for people who weren’t nearby to be able to identify his voice, and not once had Pierce been in the vicinity when he _was_ called upon to answer some questions from the press. It was a minor miracle, as that had the potential to shred their entire plan before it could commence.

Pierce, to say the least, was a blowhard. He hardly had the appearance of a man whose political aspirations had just been defeated in the election; he was more like an older uncle who thought that he came from a better time and deserved your undivided attention and awe while explaining it in a story you’d heard at least fourteen times. He bragged about how Durmstrang was the _finest Wizarding establishment known to the magical world_ and that any student would be fortunate to be accepted, although they only took the best of the best, the cream of the crop—probably the smelliest of the bullshit, too. The elitist rhetoric had continued until Bucky was just nodding and smiling, copying his dad’s way of handling people who haven’t quite realized you don’t give two shits about what they’re saying, and he could see out of the corner of his eye that Tatiana and Mikhail were reacting in roughly the same way.

At first he’d thought his reaction to Pierce was just due to the inordinate amount of complaining his mother had done about the man over the years, but all the guy had to do was keep opening his mouth for Bucky to realize that _nope_ , he really _was_ that big a dick.

Then the questions started: everything from inane inquiries about his childhood to pointless subjects that were already answered if he bothered to read the document the Petrovs had presented him with. As their interview drew to a close, Bucky was beginning to feel exhausted not from the journey, but from being mentally flayed up one side and back down the other. Having to keep his mind engaged enough to speak fluent Russian with the man was all that was keeping him aware right now.

“One last question,” Pierce addressed him after an immeasurable amount of time.

_Fucking finally._

“What do you think you have to offer us here at Durmstrang?”

Blinking, Bucky tried to make it look like he was deeply and maturely considering the question so that Pierce couldn’t see that he really just wanted to roll his eyes. What did _he_ have to offer? It was a school—what the fuck could he possibly offer them? _They_ were supposed to be here to teach _him_ how to do magic, just like Hogwarts or Ilvermorny or Uagadou or any of the other schools out there. What was he supposed to say?

_When in doubt, do what Dad says Mom does best: make shit up._

Clearing his throat, Bucky mentally scanned through his Russian vocabulary to make sure he didn’t get stuck and replied, “I am passionate about my education and only want what is best for my school by using that education to bring prestige to those I owe my knowledge to.”

_Did that make sense? I think that made sense… Does_ he _think that made sense?!_

Apparently Pierce did—that or he had the worst bullshit detector _ever_ —and his face broke into a wide smile. He picked up Bucky’s records and tapped them lightly on the desk to align all the pages; they vanished a second later, hopefully to join some kind of file and not get flushed down a toilet or something.

“Congratulations,” Pierce addressed him pompously. “Welcome to Durmstrang Institute, Yasha.”

 

***

 

> _Dear Auntie,_
> 
> _I got into Durmstrang. My interview went well, and I think the headmaster was impressed? He is a very interesting man._
> 
> _Aunt Tatiana and Uncle Mikhail helped me move my things into the dormitory while everyone else was still in class, so I haven’t met any of the others yet. Otherwise, it’s pretty nice here. Did you know that it’s dark during the winter in this part of the world? I didn’t. I thought it was weird that the school uniform had so much fur when they gave me mine, but now I’m starting to get why. It’s cold here, even in the castle. Maybe it’s just here in the dormitories, though. I haven’t really looked around much since I got here. Professor Zola gave us a short tour, but it was basically just to see where we eat and where classes are and stuff like that. I’ll have to take a look around and see if there’s somewhere warmer to hang out._
> 
> _Winter’s taking to it pretty well—thanks for letting me bring her. She’s been sniffing around for the last ten minutes playing guard cat, but she hasn’t found anything yet. The cold isn’t really agreeing with her, though, so I’m sure she’ll probably come back to steal some body heat soon._
> 
> _All my classes here are pretty much the same as what we were doing at home, except instead of doing Defense Against the Dark Arts, apparently they teach about just the Dark Arts here too? I didn’t know that was a thing. Guess we’ll find out how that goes—I’ll keep you posted._
> 
> _I thought about joining the Quidditch team, but I think I’m going to pass this year. I left my broomstick in Moscow anyway, so I’ll practice when we go on vacation._
> 
> _I miss you guys. Tell everyone I love them, okay?_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Yasha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The comment about what his mom does best being making shit up is a reference to a quote from "Political Animals."
> 
> The name Yasha Smirnov actually DOES have a meaning. Like most fics, I used Yasha because it is a version of "James" in Russian. (So is Jakov, but I liked Yasha better.) Smirnov is listed as a fairly common Russian name that is derived from the word meaning "quiet" or "still." Given that Bucky is in hiding, it seemed like a pretty accurate description. 
> 
> Tatiana and Mikhail won't have a huge presence here, but you can expect to see more of them in the sequel as well as a series of one-shots I'll start posting soon.


	15. Starting Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, if you see dialogue that is enclosed by pointed brackets, the character is speaking Russian. I won't be using any ACTUAL Russian in this series because I've heard mixed reviews on Google Translate and don't want to botch the language since I don't speak it.

 

> _My Darling Yasha,_
> 
> _You have no idea how much we miss you here. We’re all glad your first week at school is going so well, though! Don’t worry about keeping to yourself. I’m sure you’ll open up as you get used to it there, and they’ll do the same as they grow accustomed to you. Regardless, you ARE there to LEARN, so make sure you keep those priorities straight, young man._
> 
> _Everything here is going well. Your uncle is going a bit stir crazy—he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself even during a short vacation like this one! He’s been helping me keep up homeschooling for your cousin, though, so it’s nice to have the help. Your cousin misses you and Winter so much. She’s been begging us to let her go to Muggle school here, but I keep telling her that we won’t be here long enough to make it worth it. It’s a process, as you know, but we’re holding steady and without incident for now._
> 
> _In answer to your question, YES you do still need to pay attention in your Dark Arts class! I know it’s not something we taught you, but if that’s what they say you need to do, you’ll just have to grin and bear it, I’m afraid. I’ll admit, it’s really not something I had wanted you to learn. But I suppose the more you know, the safer you’ll be. Just do your best—none of us will be disappointed if you don’t do so well in that particular class._
> 
> _Remember, if there’s anything you need there, you let us or your Aunt Tatiana and Uncle Mikhail know straightaway so we can get it taken care of, all right?_
> 
> _We all love you so much, Yasha, and miss you terribly. Try to hang in there—the summer will come faster than you realize._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Auntie_

Bucky sighed deeply, rubbing his hands wearily over his face. He’d read over his mother’s letter three times in the hour since he’d gotten it, but unfortunately the words _why don’t you come home_ never made an appearance no matter how many times he thought them. He knew it was pointless to mope about this; it had been _his_ decision to come here. No one had forced him. His mom and dad already had to worry about keeping up with Becca’s Muggle lessons without adding his on top of everything. He wouldn’t make it harder on them no matter how much he hated the fact that they had to write their letters like _characters_ in a play and rely on reading between the lines to figure out what was actually going on just in case someone got their hands on them and figured out who they _really_ were. They’d exchanged a couple of letters in the four days since Bucky had enrolled, all of them written in the same roundabout way, and it took twice as long as it used to just to write a couple of paragraphs.

He glanced back over the letter a fourth time, his eyes drawn to where his mother said, “we’re holding steady and without incident for now.” All he could assume was that she meant no one had found them and there had been no more threats or attempts on anyone’s life. The day before the election, the Minister had sent word that someone tried to break into their home in London, which had been under surveillance for months since the threats began, but the Aurors on duty hadn’t been able to catch whoever it was before they managed to Apparate away from the premises.

It wouldn’t exactly be kosher for Yasha Smirnov’s aunt to be telling him all about potential deal threats and assassination attempts through the post, however, so he would have to assume that no news was good news until he could go home and see his family over the summer. (For only _two weeks_ , because he had to live with the Petrovs to keep up this whole charade, but it was better than nothing.)

<Yasha,> grunted a rough voice. He hastily stuffed the letter in the drawer of his bedside table and looked up in time to see Jack Rollins, one of his roommates, glaring at him from the doorway. <Got class. Let’s go.>

<Coming,> he muttered, kissing Winter on the head in farewell and sweeping his schoolbag off the floor on his way out the door.

There were two large dormitory wings on opposite ends of the school: one for the girls, one for the boys. Obviously, he hadn’t seen the girls’ dorm, but if it was anything like his own, it was nothing special. They clearly didn’t understand the idea of insulating against the cold in spite of the surrounding landscape; the rooms in each dormitory wing were large enough to house roughly twenty students at a time, and there was a window over every bedstead. It made for drafty evenings and, in Bucky’s case, a depressing view when the sun never seemed to rise whether he was waking up or going to sleep.

The rest of the school was a little warmer, probably due to the fact that there were fireplaces _everywhere_ : in the corridors, in their version of the Great Hall (which they just called the _mess_ like his dad did in the army), in the classrooms, even in the lavatories. It made for finding ashes in some _very_ awkward places. The only spot that didn’t have a fireplace was the dorms; they probably thought the rest of the castle was warm enough to cover it, but they were _wrong wrong wrong_.

_Why wouldn’t you put a fireplace where we get undressed? Seriously, the big furry cloak is great everywhere else, but I’m not wearing this crap to bed._

If Jack and some of the others he was living with were any indication, though, he would swear that the temperature had less to do with the weather and more to do with his peers’ personalities. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d written his mother about not really talking to his classmates—none of them were worth the effort, in his experiences so far. Maybe their hearts had frozen in the dorms or they’d just been learning the Dark Arts too long, but they could be downright _mean_ , even to their friends. Yeah, okay, so he and Steve had teased each other insatiably, and they’d frequently argued over little things or played pranks with Sam, Clint, and T’Challa. This was different, though. Most of the boys just seemed like bullies, and the girls weren’t much better; they always had something catty and rude to say. The boys were constantly picking fights in the hallways, usually with the weaker students who made little noise, and the professors just looked the other way.

Bucky had seen Jack’s friend and one of his other roommates, Brock Rumlow, shove a kid against a wall and spit in his face for accidentally bumping into him in the corridor on their way to History of Magic. So had Professor Ward, not that he gave any indication of it.

What Bucky _hadn’t_ divulged in his letters was that the teachers were, in some cases, just as bad as the students if not worse. Professor Zola was sneaky and snide, always looking to humiliate you in front of the rest of the class if he could possibly manage it—if you screwed up your potion, if you weren’t taking out your notebook quick enough, if you _breathed_ in the wrong direction, that sort of thing. He practically hero-worshiped Professor Schmidt, the Dark Arts professor who, if you asked Bucky, was just a _little_ too obsessed with his subject. Professors Ward and Sitwell, who taught Transfiguration and Charms respectively, reminded Bucky of Hodge and all the other bullies he’d pulled off of Steve over the years, especially when they were in the same room as Professors Fitz and Simmons. Professor Fitz was Bucky’s Astronomy and History of Magic teacher; he could be a little scatterbrained, but he was a nice guy and was always hanging out with Professor Simmons, who taught Herbology and Ancient Runes and was possibly the nicest person Bucky had ever met in his life. Just like with any other bully, though, that made them the targets and Bucky constantly heard the other professors making snide remarks about them in their classes or even to their faces during transitions.

Four days was all it took for Bucky to realize that it was no wonder the bullies ruled the roost when they grew up to become the _teachers_.

So he’d kept to himself. Rollins had been appointed by Professor Pierce to show him around for the first couple of weeks, which neither Bucky nor Rollins himself were too keen on. He didn’t need a babysitter showing him where the potty was and making sure he got to class on time—he was _new_ , not _stupid_. Maybe Pierce thought that it would help him acclimate to the school and make friends a little easier, but that attempt had fallen so far flat it made crepes look like car tires. Bucky would sooner punch Rollins in his silent, sneering face than be friends with that guy or anyone else he hung out with. It would probably make him a target once the newness of his arrival wore off, not that he gave a shit about that. Let them come at him—he’d had plenty of practice pulling Steve out of fights to know how to handle himself, and he would probably get a medal for fighting here unlike the expulsion you’d face at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t exactly a _positive_ , but it was at least not as negative as some of the other things he had to put up with.

<So, what’s with the cat?> grumbled Rollins, pulling him out of his thoughts as they made their way down the main staircase towards the Potions classroom.

His Russian was pretty bad, stilted and slow, but Bucky wasn’t letting him off easy. It had come to his attention within his first twenty-four hours at Durmstrang that if people thought you didn’t speak their language, they’d eventually leave you to your own devices. So Yasha Smirnov, whose family was Russian even though they lived all around the globe, could only speak a _little_ English. Maybe some French, too, if you counted cursing. But if you wanted to have a _real_ conversation, it would have to be in Russian. Most of their lessons were conducted in Russian anyway whether you could speak it or not, so Rollins could suck it up and deal.

<What about her?> inquired Bucky, rolling his eyes. Rollins had been watching Winter with unbridled contempt since he’d first come into the dormitory to see Bucky had moved in. Unlike Clint, it was the kind of contempt that made Bucky nervous.

<Why did you bring it? It just gets hair all over the place.>

Bucky raised an eyebrow. <You sure that’s not from Brock’s dog? Or Alexei’s rat? Or Dmitri’s fox? Or—>

<All right, I get it.>

Smirking, Bucky shook his head and looked in the other direction so Rollins wouldn’t see his disdain. Yeah, apparently his novelty was wearing off faster than he expected. He wouldn’t take any shit from these guys, though, especially not about Winter. She wouldn’t even leave his bed anymore unless it was when he was holding her, so if there was a mess in the dormitory, Rollins could go chasing after everyone else’s pets (which made for a pretty impressive menagerie given the lack of rules against bringing certain animals to Durmstrang).

Thankfully, Rollins immediately abandoned him to sit with Rumlow the second they entered the Potions classroom while Bucky took up residence at the very back the way he had been since his first day.

_If you pretend you’re invisible long enough, I wonder if it’ll actually happen._

 

***

 

<No, no, _no_ —you _idiot boy_! >

Bucky glared up at Schmidt where he was criticizing Edwin Jarvis’s technique for the millionth time that lesson. _Here we go again…_

<You must hold your wand _firmly_ and point it toward the _chest_ of your opponent, > the professor growled. When he got frustrated enough, his face turned about ten shades of red in a matter of five seconds, which was impressive if slightly concerning for the man’s health (and their own by association). <What good is the spell going to be if you’re aiming at their _shoes_? >

Jarvis swallowed and answered so softly Bucky almost didn’t hear it, <None, Professor.>

<None. Precisely. Now do it _again_. >

They were learning the Cutting Curse, only this wasn’t like the one his mother used to chop vegetables when she was stirring something on the stove and couldn’t spare a hand: this one was meant for _people_. An eerily lifelike mannequin stood at the front of the classroom, and they were all standing in line waiting to practice the spell on the poor inanimate object. It was obviously too dangerous to try to use it on each other, although Schmidt had said most of them probably didn’t have the intent to do more than give each other a paper cut at this point. (Based on the way Rumlow and Rollins were currently eyeing Jarvis like lions observing a gazelle, however, Bucky was calling bullshit on that one.)

For his part, Bucky didn’t see the point of learning this. When would they use it? Most of the spells they were learning were illegal in most countries. (He’d checked.) At least at Hogwarts they’d learned spells to protect them from people who wouldn’t care if it was against the law. It felt like teaching these spells as if they were completely normal, natural parts of daily life was just tempting fate.

And it appeared he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. So far, he hadn’t managed to successfully cast any dark spells because he lacked the intent, and Jarvis was the same. Bucky didn’t actively try to mess up the spells most of the time; he just didn’t put in any effort whatsoever to get it right. Schmidt didn’t really give him a hard time about it, though, probably surmising that a homeschooled bumpkin would be slow on the uptake. However, something about the other boy seemed to rile Schmidt up, and while Bucky managed to slip under the radar as a failure, Jarvis bore the brunt of any abuse Schmidt felt like dishing out. Hardly a day went by when he wasn’t insulted, berated, laughed at, smacked, or used as a demonstration dummy. Bucky could only hope that today didn’t end up that way.

The same thought had probably already occurred to Jarvis ten times over. Bucky watched him take a deep breath, raise his wand in a trembling hand to chest height, and pretty much whimper, “ _Sectumsempra…_ ”

For a second, nothing seemed to happen.

Then, when Bucky squinted, he could _just barely_ see where one strand of the fabric on the dummy’s chest had been cut and was poking out a bit. It looked like a sweater that had gotten snagged on the latch of the dryer when taking it out.

 _Damn. This won’t be good_ , thought Bucky, internally cringing and sucking his lips in as he watched Schmidt carefully. So far, the spells he’d tried on Jarvis for failing hadn’t been _too_ bad—or, well, they _had_ been, but they didn’t do any lasting damage—but this spell…

Schmidt kept his back to the rest of them as he leaned toward the mannequin and observed the thread in an almost comical fashion. The entire class seemed to be holding its breath, some in fear and others (like Rollins and Rumlow) in anticipation.

When their teacher straightened up and turned back around, his face was entirely emotionless as he informed Jarvis, <Your ineptitude knows no bounds. And it appears that you have wasted our time today—class is dismissed. Your homework is to practice this spell. Do not use your classmates,> he added with a sarcastic little sneer that totally negated what he’d just said.

 _I should’ve just stayed home, not gone to school, and become a hobo. Hobos don’t have to deal with this shit,_ fumed Bucky, tossing his books into his bag and stuffing his wand back into his robes. He was starting to _live_ for the days when he didn’t have Dark Arts lessons—or any lessons for that matter.

As the rest of the class gathered their belongings and filed out the door, Bucky couldn’t help but be thankful that the day had finally come to an end. Three weeks he’d been dealing with this joke of a school, and he honestly felt that summer couldn’t come fast enough. He enjoyed his lessons with Fitz and Simmons, who did their best to make the content both enlightening and enjoyable, but Rumlow and his cronies tended to make enough snide remarks to bring down the mood in those classes as well. It was inconceivable to Bucky that two adults just _allowed_ the students to talk to them like that, but he supposed they were used to it given the colleagues they had to put up with. Ward and Sitwell never seemed to tire of badmouthing them in their own classes, to mixed reactions: the assholes thought it was hysterical while the students like Bucky who would rather not tolerate this shit wanted to punch someone in the face.

Perhaps he’d talk to his parents about reneging on the agreement and not making him come back next year. Or maybe by the next school year everything would have calmed down enough to let him go back to Hogwarts where he belonged. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about that in the face of what he had to deal with, but the idea still lingered in the back of his head regardless. If whoever had tried to kill his mom was caught, if she wasn’t a target anymore, if she didn’t run for Minister again, if people didn’t get violent over her ideas—could he go back? If Durmstrang was just going to be a temporary thing, did he really need to worry about making friends like his mother asked about every time she wrote? If if if. There were so many of them that Bucky thought he’d go mad trying to keep track sometimes. It was better to keep his mind focused on the present to distract him from what could have been or what might be in the future.

_Speaking of distractions…_

Bucky had hardly turned the corner to the main staircase when he saw a group gathered in the corridor, a familiar voice spouting nonsense the way it always did.

“Come on, J, that’s the best you got?” Rumlow jeered. His Cro-Magnon flunkies laughed as he pushed at Jarvis’s chest until the latter was shoved up against the stone wall. Jarvis was taller than Rumlow, but he was also gangly and had no will to fight anyone.

“Brock,” he was trying to reason with him, “this is really rather unnecessa—“

Rumlow just rolled his eyes and punched Jarvis in the gut, watching him double over with a disappointed shake of his head. “Jeez, no good at magic, no good in a fight—tell me, what exactly _are_ you good for?”

Jarvis didn’t raise his head or rise to the insults, letting the laughter wash over him and trying to edge his way out of the crowd. Rumlow wasn’t finished, though, and pulled Jarvis back by the edge of his fur-lined cloak while removing his wand from the inner pocket of his robes. He spun it around his fingers a few times while Jarvis’s eyes followed the motion in trepidation.

“Y’know what? I’m gonna do you a favor, J.” He nodded, pretending that he was coming to some kind of conclusion. “You aren’t doing so hot in Schmidt’s class, right? Maybe you just need some real-world demonstrations, huh? Probably helps to _see_ it.” His wand was almost touching Jarvis’s breastbone, his target frozen in fear. “ _Sectumsempr—_ “

“ _Protego!_ ”

Rumlow’s spell bounced off the shield that appeared in front of Jarvis, the force of the impact throwing him across the corridor into the opposite wall. He landed on the ground in a heap.

Bucky hadn’t even realized he’d taken out his wand, but he was exceedingly grateful that Stark had taught them Shield Charms a year early for about five seconds before every eye turned to look at _him_.

_Motherfucker._

“Man, what the hell’s your problem?!” shouted Rumlow as he hauled himself to his feet. His expression was absolutely murderous. Bucky blinked a few times at the question and shook his head in his best impression of panicked confusion—Rumlow had yelled at him in _English_ , and Bucky figured he could stand to be inconvenienced if he was going to be an asshole.

Growling, Rumlow switched to Russian as he practically ran up the stairs and got in Bucky’s face. <What. The fuck. Is your goddamn problem, Smirnov?>

Blinking, Bucky lowered his wand and replied in as innocent and timid a voice as he could, <Schmidt said not to use it on anyone. I thought you wouldn’t want to get in trouble.>

Rumlow should have lost a few teeth for how hard his jaw hit the ground. After a second, his eyes narrowed like he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was trying to decide if he wanted to walk away or punch Bucky in the face but couldn’t quite choose.

Oddly enough, it was Rollins who saved the day.

“Let it go, man,” he grumbled, smacking Rumlow on the arm lightly and glaring over his shoulder at Bucky. “Kid’s still new.”

_Kid? We’re the same fucking age, you oversized ape. Who the hell you calling a kid?_

Rumlow stood staring a few moments longer before he grunted in agreement and withdrew a few steps out of Bucky’s space. The rest of his groupies were obviously disappointed that they wouldn’t be getting a show today and began moving down the hall towards the main stairs. Before they disappeared around the corner, Rumlow turned and walked backwards to call to Bucky in Russian, <Little advice, Smirnov? Don’t get involved in shit that ain’t got nothing to do with you.> Then they were gone.

Bucky and Jarvis were the last ones in the corridor once the others cleared out, Jarvis eyeing him with an expression between awe and confusion. Running a hand through his hair, Bucky asked, <You okay?>

<Yes, I’m fine, thank you,> replied Jarvis, switching from his usual British-accented English to Russian for Bucky’s benefit. <That was… Well, if you don’t mind me saying it, that was amazing. How did you do that?>

Shrugging, Bucky replied, <I learned it before. My uh… My aunt taught me.> There was a longing in Jarvis’s eyes that had Bucky offering, <I could teach you, if you want?>

Jarvis lit up for just a second, but his face fell almost immediately. <No, I couldn’t possibly—>

<I’d take him up on it if I were you,> another voice interrupted.

Bucky turned to see a redheaded girl he recognized from their classes coming down the stairs toward them, one eyebrow raised like she couldn’t understand why Jarvis would turn him down. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she leaned against the wall and folded her arms over her chest with a shrug.

<I mean, if you want assholes like Rumlow to beat up on you whenever they want, that’s fine too,> she added, her tone utterly unperturbed. She sounded like they were discussing the weather or something equally unimportant rather than the fact that Jarvis had been nearly torn apart less than two minutes ago. It wasn’t terribly surprising, though. He hadn’t paid much attention in class, but he’d never seen her speak or sit with anyone else. Who cared if she was lacking a few people skills? She already seemed a right sight better than most of the other idiots around here.

Smiling sympathetically at Jarvis, Bucky agreed, <She’s got a point. He’s not going to stop if you don’t stand up for yourself.>

Jarvis seemed to deliberate for a minute. To be honest, Bucky couldn’t really blame him. They went to a school where violence was not just tolerated but _encouraged_ , and Bucky had only been there for less than a month. How was Jarvis to know that this wasn’t just some way of lulling him into a false sense of security only to do something even worse later as a prank? Bucky couldn’t imagine doing something like that, but it was obvious that there were plenty of people here who wouldn’t have any qualms about it whatsoever.

<That…would be great. Thank you,> Jarvis added after another long moment, smiling weakly. Bucky clapped him on the shoulder, which only drew a slightly startled wince.

<Okay. How about we practice tomorrow? It’s Saturday, so we won’t have classes.>

Jarvis agreed with a nod and then stammered out an excuse to retreat to the dormitory for the night. They were in the same one, but they hadn’t spoken before today; Jarvis appeared to be the type to keep to himself just like Bucky had been. Perhaps with two of them teaming up, things would be a little different, or at the very least tolerable.

Bucky nearly forgot that he wasn’t alone until his last remaining companion commented, <That was a nice thing, what you did. Nobody stands up to Rumlow like that.>

Shrugging, Bucky turned to frown at her. <He could’ve killed him. It’s what anyone would have done.>

<Except that it really isn’t,> she countered mildly. She eyed him silently for a few seconds and then introduced herself. <Natasha Romanoff.>

He just barely caught himself before he said _Bucky Barnes_ , although he was slowly but surely breaking the habit of thinking of his real name first. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing. <Yasha Smirnov.>

<Yeah, I know.> Natasha started strolling down the hall slowly, and he took that as his cue to accompany her. <Rumor has it you didn’t go to a real school before this one.>

<No, I was homeschooled,> recited Bucky. It started to sound more natural as he repeated it more frequently.

<Bet that was fun,> she chuckled, the sarcasm evident in her voice. Bucky smiled wryly.

<It was better than you’d think. What about you—did your family send you here in your first year?> he asked, thinking it would be a good idea to get the focus off of him lest he trip up somewhere along the line.

Natasha nodded, scrutinizing him closely. <Yeah. My foster family didn’t want me around any longer than necessary.>

<Oh…> Bucky winced. Her expression hadn’t outwardly changed, but her green eyes were a bit cooler than they had been before when she answered. Bucky assumed maybe he’d touched on a sore subject. <Sorry…>

<It’s fine,> she waved him off carelessly, leading them down the main staircase towards the mess. <They’ve got a house and food. What more could you ask for, right?>

Frowning, Bucky couldn’t stop himself from replying, <Well, they’re supposed to be your family, so…probably more than that.>

<Aw, so optimistic—that’s cute,> taunted Natasha dryly.

<Not optimistic,> challenged Bucky with a sigh. <Don’t you want more than just a house and food?>

<You know, to some people, that’s a hell of a lot to ask for already.>

<Yeah, maybe. But you didn’t answer my question.>

<And what was that again?> asked Natasha through an exasperated exhale.

Bucky knew she remembered the question and was just trying to be difficult without needing to know her well. <Don’t you want _more_? > he repeated without calling her on it.

<Like _what_? >

<Uh…love? Maybe?>

<Love,> muttered Natasha, snorting delicately. She looked at him with a surprisingly tender expression, pity in her eyes. <Love is for children.>

 _What the hell?_ <People love each other all the time, no matter how old they are,> rebutted Bucky heatedly. He stopped in the middle of the stairs, and Natasha drew up short, staring up at him.

<And look at all the stupid things they do because of it,> Natasha pointed out with a shrug. <People hurt each other—they _kill_ each other over something that changes all the time and might not even be there tomorrow. Love isn’t permanent; it doesn’t _do_ anything for you. It has _no_ purpose except to make you feel like you’re worth something. It’s kid stuff. >

Bucky frowned thoughtfully, seeing the sense in her words but completely disagreeing regardless. So love wasn’t perfect; so it didn’t always last forever. Love was the reason he was in this stupid school to begin with: his parents made them go into hiding because they loved each other too much to see a member of their family hurt, he’d agreed to go to Durmstrang because he loved his family too much to be a burden on them, and he was heavily altering what stories he put in his letters because he loved them too much to let them see how miserable he was here. Love came with stupid shit and misery, but it also more than made up for all of that. Every time his mom held him when he was upset, every time his dad mussed his hair and said he was proud of him, every time Becca launched herself at him for a hug, every time Sarah had baked him cookies and Steve had smiled at him and Sam had made fun of him and T’Challa had smiled at their cats playing together on the floor and Clint had rolled his eyes while secretly loving their taunting all the while— _that_ was the best feeling in the world, one he wouldn’t give up for anything.

That was love, and his memories of it were what kept him going even when he _hated_ Durmstrang and his professors and half the people he knew here. Every night when he went to sleep, he curled up with Winter under his chin and closed his eyes, thinking about home and Hogwarts and all the people who he loved. Sometimes he even pulled out Sarah’s letter (despite mostly having it memorized by now) and read it again when he was feeling particularly down:

> _But you just remember that the people who really matter and who love you more than anything know the truth, and there are so many of us out here supporting you. You’ve always been my baby boy in everything but blood, just as Steve is to your mom and dad, and I am so proud of the young man you’re growing into._

Bucky had always been surrounded by people who loved him. It was why even the things that _seemed_ earth shattering at the time had turned out all right in the end.

Maybe Natasha had never had that. She’d said asking for food and shelter, things Bucky took for granted as always being there, could be a lot for some people. Was she talking about herself? Did she honestly think that that was as good as it got and she didn’t need anything else?

What awful things had happened to Natasha to make her think you could live without love?

<I’m sorry,> he whispered, his face falling not in pity, but in compassion.

Natasha didn’t ask what he was apologizing for, but the surprise on her face made him think perhaps no one had ever thought to say those words to her before. A small smile pulled up the corners of her mouth, neither sarcastic nor disdainful this time, and she held out a hand.

<Come on, I’m starving.>

 

***

 

 

> _Dear Auntie,_
> 
> _Sorry it’s been a few weeks since I wrote—things have been pretty busy, so I have a lot to tell you._
> 
> _Classes are going okay. I’ve got the highest marks in Herbology and Astronomy, and I’m doing pretty well in my other classes too. Well, Dark Arts isn’t going so well. I’m passing, but it’s only because I’m doing the papers and stuff. Schmidt probably thinks I’m an idiot who can’t do any magic. I don’t want to learn curses! I don’t want to learn how to hurt people! So…I kind of botch the spells until he tells me to give up? I can’t tell if he knows I’m doing it on purpose or not, but he hasn’t said anything about it, so we’ll go with that. Professor Zola said I have a gift for potion-making, which is total crap because usually Nat has to help me survive that class—I keep forgetting ingredients. Maybe if they picked a book that wasn’t in GERMAN it wouldn’t be so bad. I ALMOST poisoned the frogs we were supposed to be giving warts to, but my cauldron mysteriously emptied itself on Rumlow’s desk instead. Not quite sure how that happened._
> 
> _Speaking of Nat, I’ve kind of made friends? Maybe four? I know you’re going to ask, so I’ll just tell you who they are. PLEASE DON’T DO BACKGROUND CHECKS AGAIN, IT’S EMBARRASSING! Anyway, I helped Edwin Jarvis out of some trouble he was having with Rumlow a few weeks ago—Rumlow’s the bully I told you about last time I wrote—and I’ve been teaching him how to do some protective magic ever since. We started with Shield Charms, which he got pretty quick, and now we’re working on some of the nicer spells that’ll give him time to run if he needs to. (He really liked learning the Tickling Charm, but I don’t think Nat found it funny when he tried it on her.) Don’t worry, I’m not teaching him anything that’ll get us into trouble, but he can’t keep letting them push him around. Last time, Rumlow tried to cut him in half with a spell we learned in Dark Arts. So far he hasn’t tried anything else, but at least now Jarvis will be able to pull a few things out of his sleeves. Anyway, we get together to work on magic on the weekends and hang out after, so I guess he’s kind of a friend? Maybe more of an acquaintance, I don’t know._
> 
> _Nat’s great too—Natasha Romanoff. She lives in Moscow with her foster family. I think you’d like her. She’s super smart and a little scary. No one messes with her, and I don’t blame them. She’s not much bigger than Steve, but she said she learned karate so I’m pretty sure she could snap me in half with her bare hands. She also learned ballet, so she could do it totally gracefully too. She’s kind of one of those girls you’d expect to hang out with the popular kids, but for some reason she likes talking to me and watching Jarvis mess up spells instead. We eat together most days and partner up in class. (Like I said, she’s the potion-saver.) We don’t really talk a lot about our home lives, but it’s still nice to have someone to talk to, you know? She’s a good friend._
> 
> _Then there are the twins—Wanda and Pietro—and Skye. The twins’re from Sokovia. Wanda’s pretty quiet, but Pietro is ALWAYS MOVING. They’re a year older than me, Nat, and Jarvis, but they found out I’m teaching Jarvis those spells and wanted to learn too. (So did Skye—she’s a year behind us. Turns out Durmstrang doesn’t like showing us the GOOD spells.) I gotta admit, I wasn’t really feeling it at first. I know Nat and Jarvis from class, but I’d never met Wanda, Pietro, or Skye before they came up to us outside and asked if they could join in. A lot of the kids here like playing pranks, so you can never be too careful, but so far they seem okay. Don’t know that I’d call them FRIENDS, but. Yeah._
> 
> _Anyway, what else… Winter’s doing well. She kind of hates everybody in my dorm except Jarvis. (Can’t blame her—so do I.) She still won’t go anywhere except my bed unless I take her myself, so I’m getting a little worried. Hopefully I can get her to move around a little more when I go back to Aunt Tatiana and Uncle Mikhail’s for Easter in a couple of weeks. She seemed to like it there, so maybe I’ll take her outside and let her explore Moscow a little bit. Nat said she wanted to get together over the holidays, so I guess I’ll meet up with her sometime too._
> 
> _So yeah, everything’s fine here, I guess. How are things there? Have you had any incidents since last time?_
> 
> _I really miss you guys. Maybe I’ll get to see you over the Easter holidays?_
> 
> _Love you,_
> 
> _Yasha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 16 and 17 will both be up tomorrow, probably a few hours apart, and I'll begin posting the second part of the story on Friday. At some point between now and then, I hope to also have a one-shot or two for you guys. I've got quite a few planned, but the first two will be based on a couple of lovely comments I've had. I'll mention who they are when I post. :)


	16. A World So Cold (2012)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. 
> 
> There has been a time jump: two and a half years have passed. Bucky is now sixteen, and it is the summer before his sixth year.

“Mom, Bucky ate the last Chocolate Frog!”

“James Buchanan Barnes, you are sixteen years old! Can’t you—for _once_ —let your little sister have the last piece of candy?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky yelled back through a mouthful of chocolate, “I’m saving her from childhood obesity! Excuse me for _helping_.”

Becca cuffed him on the side of his head and tried to make a quick getaway, but Bucky was faster. He snaked an arm around her waist from where he was lying on the couch and yanked so she fell back on top of him, immediately attacking her sides while she shrieked with laughter. No matter how hard she tried to escape, he just held on tighter until the tickling practically left her breathless. She almost fell over the edge of the couch on her butt, except—

“Winter, _come on_!”

Sputtering, Bucky spit the cat hair out of his mouth where Winter had plopped herself down and sat on his face. Once he’d shifted her butt out of the way, he got her tongue instead; he could hear Becca cheering her on from where she’d managed to slip to the floor. He tried to bat Winter away, but it was an admittedly halfhearted venture. His cat put up with his altered appearance on a daily basis while he was at school, so he wouldn’t begrudge her a chance to show his real face some overdue affection when she got the opportunity. He loved the time he spent with his family in Romania for many reasons, and seeing his own face looking back at him from the mirror was pretty high up on the list.

“All right, Win, I know. I know,” he whispered, stroking a hand over her head until she calmed down and curled into a ball on his chest. It didn’t matter how old she got: she _never_ got tired of sticking her head up under his jaw and purring contentedly. He hoped she never would.

“Now I get why you don’t have a girlfriend!” exclaimed Becca, propping her arms up on the couch cushion next to his head and grinning wickedly. “They probably think you’re dating Winter.”

Bucky flicked her nose, and she swatted his ear in retaliation. “Can’t blame them. Anyone would be jealous of my best girl, huh, Win?” he cooed, kissing her on top of her furry head. He felt her rough tongue against his neck and chuckled.

“You two are so disgusting.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“I thought that was your not-girlfriends.”

“My not-girlfriends are my not-girlfriends because I don’t want to date someone who’s never seen me,” sighed Bucky, unwillingly latching onto the more serious subject matter. He hated talking about the fact that they were still hiding from the world after over two years, especially during the limited time he got to spend with his real family.

Now, however, he couldn’t help thinking about it as he watched Becca’s face fall a little. She was growing up so fast. In a few months, she’d be eleven, and his parents were already starting to think about what they were going to do for her education. They were never supposed to be away for this long, but things had somehow managed to get even worse after they’d left the public eye and everything they knew behind. Stern had stayed Minister and made many valiant attempts to find out who was behind the attacks on his mother and the rest of the family to no avail. He’d said more than once that he thought it was Hydra, but they were so far underground that it was like trying to catch gophers on speed. During the months after he was reelected, he’d made a number of public statements that although Bucky’s mom and her family had been relocated for their safety (his mom had been _so pissed_ when he released what had been happening), she was still Senior Undersecretary and would continue to make strides toward a more cooperative Muggle-wizard relationship. Letters continued to arrive at her office with deadly items, some of them Muggle poisons and explosives that someone apparently thought the Ministry wouldn’t recognize, and they’d gotten a message in the middle of the night when he came back that first summer to say that their home in London had mysteriously burned down. Thankfully, all their belongings were with them in Romania, but it was the principle of the thing.

What they’d thought would be a few months turned into years, and Bucky hadn’t seen or heard from the friends he left at Hogwarts in all that time. They never went back; his mother never appeared in public or even at the Ministry, handling all correspondence from her office in the house. Their security in Romania had never been compromised thanks to the Fidelius Charm keeping it hidden from anyone who wasn’t told by their Secret Keeper where it was. (Bucky had found out after the fact that their Secret Keeper wasn’t the Minister as he’d originally assumed, but Janet van Dyne, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.) It felt as though they were standing still. Bucky and his sister got older, as did their parents, but the world spun on without them while they were treading water in exile.

Some good had come of the whole thing, if he was being optimistic. Although Durmstrang was still the steaming pile of horseshit it always had been, he’d made a handful of friends and acquaintances to pass the time with. Natasha had become one of his best friends, second only to Steve, and they spent most of their time at school together; they worked as partners in their classes, ate meals together, and sat whispering insults or jeers about the other students whenever they got the chance. Winter loved when Bucky brought her out of his dormitory to visit with Nat since she still, after two and a half years there, refused to go anywhere without him present. She’d move around his section of the dormitory during the day instead of staying rooted to his bedspread, but that was about all he’d come to expect. She loved going with him to visit Nat or go outside, and he even brought her to some of their study sessions with Jarvis, the Maximoff twins, and Skye. (He tried not to make it a habit, though, as they tended to spoil her with treats and then _he_ was the one who ended up tending to his sick cat all night.)

When he wasn’t with his friends or in class or otherwise occupied, and sometimes even when he _was_ , the questions would play back in his mind like they had when this all started. He’d lie in bed, staring at the wall before falling asleep, and wonder what Steve was doing at that very moment. He’d wonder if Igorha had grown to be bigger than Winter, who was on the smaller side compared with other cats of the same breed and age. He wondered if T’Challa had decided to tell their friends who he really was now that they were about to start their sixth year and graduation wouldn’t be far behind. He pondered whether maturity would have made Clint less of a smart ass and then threw out the idea just as quickly—that was impossible even by magical standards. He thought about whether Sam had finally gotten on the Quidditch team. He thought about Peggy and Daniel and Angie and Darcy and Tony and Pepper (who must have graduated by now, _holy shit_ ); he thought about Thor and his Squib brother Loki and their bigoted father.

He thought about Sarah and how much she’d told him she loved him and always would.

He wondered if they had ever stopped missing him the way he would never stop missing them.

A finger poked into his cheek and he turned his head to see Becca watching him sadly. “Where’d you go?”

Sniffing, Bucky blinked back the tears that had pooled in his eyes and cleared his throat. _Pull yourself together, Barnes._ “Nowhere,” he replied with a shitty excuse for a smile. “I’m right here.”

Becca nodded, her expression far too knowing and mature for a ten-year-old, and set her head down on his chest next to Winter. She ran her fingers through the cat’s fur quietly while Bucky palmed the back of her head. These were the moments he tried to memorize so that when he went back to Russia in a few days, he would have something to take with him. Two weeks per year and Christmas was nowhere near enough time, not even close.

Bucky wasn’t sure how much time had passed when his mom called them to the table for dinner. The sun had drifted low in the sky while they had been relaxing in the living room, the television playing softly in the background just for noise.

“All right, get’cher ass up, squirt,” he muttered, nudging his sister lightly.

She poked her tongue out at him and countered with, “Loser,” before rushing off through the kitchen to the breakfast nook. They only used the dining room for Christmas dinner; the smaller table was just fine for everything else.

His dad and Becca were already at the table when he entered the kitchen and pulled out Winter’s bowl, the former reading that morning’s _Daily Prophet_. His mom still got all the news outlets she always had—they just had to go through five security checkpoints and untraceable communications channels to get here first. As always, his dad didn’t really care to keep track of what was going on in much of the Wizarding world, but Bucky’s mom had been incensed by an article that morning so it appeared that he was just trying to keep up with whatever she’d been on about.

Much calmer than she had been earlier, Bucky’s mom dropped a kiss on his cheek as she filled the plates and waved her wand so they floated to the table one by one when she finished. Bucky smiled down at her—his last growth spurt had brought him almost to his father’s height, which meant he was a good few inches taller than his mother now. She’d cried about it when she saw him, sobbing about how they were missing so much. Bucky could honestly say he knew the feeling every time he saw Becca.

He finished dumping a serving of cat food into the bowl and poured a spoonful of Winter’s tonic while the cat waited patiently on the counter. They’d long since learned to do tonic _first_ so she could wash the taste out with the rest of her food, so she obediently licked it up from the spoon he held out to her and then dug into her dinner with gusto. Bucky gave her one last scratch behind the ears before joining his family at the table.

“Okay, so the guy is a dick,” his dad was saying when he sat down.

“You can say that again,” grumbled his mother, beginning to eat now that Bucky was there. It was a testament to how much the news had truly pissed her off that she didn’t correct her husband’s language in front of their children. (She’d given Bucky up as a lost cause by now, deciding that the brief periods of time they got to spend together shouldn’t be wasted by getting him to watch his mouth, but Becca was another matter.)

“Is he even allowed to do this?”

Bucky’s mom shrugged, spearing a piece of chicken viciously. “He’s the Minister. He can do whatever the bloody hell he wants and no one can say a word.”

Cringing, Bucky focused his attention on his plate and tried to tune the conversation out unsuccessfully. This had been a sore subject for _months_ , and it hadn’t gotten any better yet.

“There has to be something someone can do,” reasoned his dad. “What about the Wizengamot? I thought they were like your Supreme Court. Shouldn’t they be able to look at what he’s doing and say it’s not okay?”

“Not in this case,” sighed his mother, her anger beginning to leech out and leave a heavy sadness in its wake. “The undersecretary has _always_ been an appointed position. You serve at the pleasure of the Minister, and it is not the Minister’s _pleasure_ for me to serve.”

His dad snorted in disgust. “Asshole.”

“I can vouch for that,” agreed Bucky. It gave his parents a brief chuckle, so that wasn’t so bad.

He of all people could honestly say that the Minister for Magic was the biggest, most arrogant douchebag in the history of arrogant douchebags. It was something his mother had known a bit about thanks to the previous election, but after spending two years at Durmstrang, Bucky had firsthand experience.

Alexander Pierce, just as his mother had said years ago, was doing his level best to set the Wizarding community back a few centuries. Usually a new Minister wasn’t elected for seven years, but an emergency election had been held after Stern died of a heart attack suddenly that January. Bucky hadn’t been home at the time, but he’d seen an article in Jarvis’s copy of the _Prophet_ that speculated about whether the position would automatically be passed to his mom or if they’d have to go through an election. The Wizengamot had been called into session, and they came to the decision that based on his mother’s current standing and the danger posed to her by militant groups like Hydra, an election would be a more effective method to determine the new Minister. Apparently enough people wanted someone in charge who wasn’t likely to be killed within their first few weeks that they elected the only other person on the ballot: Pierce. He hadn’t even bothered to give a farewell speech to the students—one day he was there, the next Schmidt had succeeded him as headmaster. (The crazy old fuck continued to teach Dark Arts as well. Bucky was convinced he did it purely out of spite.)

His first day in office, Bucky found out later, he’d sent a message to his mother saying that he didn’t plan on making any changes to the current administration and not to worry about her job security.

Not six months later, the headline on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ this morning read, “MINISTER PIERCE NAMES POTENTIAL CANDIDATES TO REPLACE UNDERSECRETARY BARNES IN THE COMING WEEKS.”

Bucky had been too sick to his stomach to read the article earlier, and it looked like he probably made the right decision to keep his nose out of it if the expression on his father’s face was anything to go by.

“What’ll happen to you, Mom?” inquired Becca curiously. The same question had occurred to Bucky, but he hadn’t considered asking until his mom had cooled down from her rampage that morning.

Taking a deep pull from her wineglass, their mother was silent for a minute or two before she finally answered, “I assume that I’ll be given the position I was in before Minister Stern appointed me. If not, they’ll find something else for me to do.”

“And you’re _sure_ there’s _nothing_ you can do about this?” his father prodded one last time, reaching out to hold his wife’s hand. She gave it a squeeze in return.

“I have a few people to talk to. I can’t stop him from removing me from my office, but I can make damn sure he doesn’t boot me out of the Ministry itself.”

His father nodded grimly, and Bucky gazed back down at his plate. He would never say it aloud, but that was another one of those questions that filtered through his mind at night. Would they be better off if his mother didn’t work at the Ministry anymore? Would they be safe? Could they go home?

“Anyway!” exclaimed his mother suddenly, plastering a grin on her face that was mostly sincere. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, shall we? My baby is home.” She grabbed his left hand, and Bucky saw her smile wobble a little. “This is a time for us. Pierce can wait.”

 

***

 

The nights preceding Bucky going back to Moscow were always the hardest. They were all a little quieter at dinner; they curled a little closer to one another on the couch, Becca holding his hand where she sat on the floor in front of him watching a movie. The hugs lasted a little longer before bedtime. Sleep didn’t come.

Sighing in aggravation, Bucky threw off his covers and ran a hand through his hair. He thought he’d eventually get used to this, but leaving his family never ceased to upset him just as much as it had when he was a scared thirteen-year-old who’d had his whole world ripped out from under him in a matter of hours. He could only imagine what it must be like for his parents.

It had been a couple of hours since he’d gone to bed, but he knew that sleep would evade him so he got up and stretched, hushing Winter when she popped open an eye to see what was going on. He petted her head until her eyes closed again and tucked her favorite stuffed monkey closer to her before quietly opening his door. Becca’s was closed across the hall, so she had likely fallen asleep. The door to his parents’ room, however, was open. Frowning, he tiptoed past his sister’s room and the staircase to peek inside, but there was no one there.

 _Guess they couldn’t sleep either_ , Bucky mused as he made his way downstairs to see the light from the television flickering in the living room.

When he peered around the corner, he saw his parents curled up together on the couch, his mom lying back on his dad’s chest with tears running down her cheeks. His dad’s eyes were bright and wet as well, which only made Bucky feel his own begin to well up. As soon as he sniffled to regain his composure, both his parents’ gazes were on him, his mom immediately moving to mop up the wetness on her face.

“Buck, what’re you doing up?” asked his dad softly. His tone said he already knew the answer long before Bucky shrugged wordlessly, letting the unspoken words hang in the air between them.

Chuckling wetly, his mom held out a hand. “Come here, darling.”

They split apart and made room for him to sit between them, his dad throwing an arm around his shoulders while his mom leaned into his side and held his hand tightly in her lap. The sound on the television was muted, but Bucky could see it was some old Romanian sitcom, so it wasn’t like any of them would be able to understand what was going on anyway. They just sat and stared in silence, none of them even bothering to pretend they were actually watching the show.

“I hate going back,” whispered Bucky after an interminable amount of time. His mom’s grasp on his arm tightened.

“We know, baby,” she breathed just as quietly. “We hate seeing you leave. If it weren’t so important…”

He managed a nod. “I know.”

It didn’t matter that he was now sixteen and practically a man; it didn’t matter that he was far too old to be curled up in his parents’ laps crying like a baby. None of that meant a damn thing as he pulled his legs up onto the couch and curled into his dad’s chest like he did as a child, sobbing as quietly as he could to avoid waking Becca. He felt his mom hug his back, running a hand soothingly up and down his arm while his dad stroked his hair, and suddenly he was transported back eight years to the day they told him they were moving to London. He was supposed to feel more mature, more independent and ready to take on whatever the world had to throw at him. He didn’t: he felt like the same little kid who couldn’t stand the idea of everything changing. He still needed those hands on his arm and in his hair comforting him.

He still needed his mom and dad, and this was the last time he’d get to have them for the next six months.

So he let himself cry. He let his mom weep into his shirt, her tears soaking through the fabric until he could feel their wet warmth on the skin of his back. He let his dad whisper about how proud of him they were and how much they loved him.

Because tomorrow they would wake up together on the couch. Bucky would wipe his face and smile shyly, but not shamefully, at his parents. They would smile back, and his mom would kiss him on the forehead before he went upstairs to get showered and dressed. He would come back down and Becca would already be up, helping their mom make blueberry pancakes because they were his favorite breakfast food ever. His dad would ruffle his hair the way he hated, and Bucky would groan in mock annoyance while simultaneously smirking up at him. They would eat breakfast together and discuss their plans for the rest of the summer until the very last second they could possibly wait. Then they would gather around the coffee table in the living room and the matryoshka doll waiting there. His parents would hug him tight enough to break his ribs, and he would cling onto them just as hard without making any excuses or trying to hide it. Becca would jump into his arms. He would kiss her forehead and tell her to take care of their parents while he was away like he did every time. She would pinky promise to do so as long as he wrote to her _all the time_. Then he would step back, cuddle Winter close to his chest, and tell them he loved them before touching the doll and turning back into Yasha.

 

***

 

By the time Bucky met Natasha at the café they’d agreed on, it was stiflingly hot and he was sweating through his T-shirt even though he’d only left the apartment ten minutes ago. Summers in Russia could sometimes be surprisingly brutal for a place that was so cold in the winter months. Winter, who he’d admittedly been clinging to for the past week since leaving home and donning his disguise again, was sprawled over his shoulder, mewling pitifully into his neck.

“I know,” he tried to console her, scratching her head as they approached Nat’s table. “We’ll get you some water or milk or something, just hang in there.”

Nat spotted them before he reached the table, smirking. <You’re late.>

<By, like, two minutes. Shut up.>

Bucky dropped into the chair across from her and lifted Winter off his shoulder to deposit her onto the table. Taking pity on the cat if not on him (never on _him_ ), Nat pushed her glass of ice water across the table and watched Winter immediately dive into it with a small smile on her face.

<Probably not the best day to bring her out here, you know,> she scolded him lightly, running her fingers up and down Winter’s back while she drank.

Sighing, Bucky leaned forward with his elbows on the table and shrugged wearily. <I know. Just didn’t want to leave her at the apartment.>

Nat hummed, both of them falling into companionable silence for a few minutes before she commented, <So, I stopped by your aunt and uncle’s apartment last week.>

 _Fuck._ <You did?>

<Yeah, thought you might want to catch a movie or something,> she shrugged as if it weren’t that important. When she met his eyes, though, he could see the curiosity there. <Your aunt said you were away for a couple of weeks.>

<R-right,> he confirmed. She quirked an eyebrow at him and he gave the stock answer: <I was visiting my _other_ aunt and uncle. >

<The ones you grew up with?>

<Uh-huh.> They usually didn’t talk about their families to one another, so that was one of the few facts about his fake past that she knew.

<Where are they stationed this time?>

 _Goddamn it, Nat._ <Uh, they’re—I mean _we_ were in…Majorca, > he blurted out. He wasn’t sure why that was the first place to cross his mind, but he remembered a lot of people in London saying they went on holiday there so he crossed his fingers and hoped it wasn’t something like an Inferi-infested desert.

Nat’s eyebrows flew up almost to the fringe of her red hair as she repeated, <Majorca? Nice digs. What did you guys do there?>

 _Kill me now._ <Oh uh, you know. The usual stuff you do there.>

A server chose that moment to bring over two extra glasses of water and a saucer of milk for Winter. Bucky thanked him quickly, chugging the water to give him something to do with his mouth that didn’t involve running it. The expression on Nat’s face had transitioned from curious to amused by the time he lowered the empty glass to the table.

<At ease there, soldier,> she finally said with a knowing grin. <You know you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.>

Frowning, Bucky busied himself with picking nonexistent dirt particles out of Winter’s fur and mumbled, <What do you mean?>

Nat snorted lightly and leaned back in her chair. Her piercing green eyes were still surveying him in that way they always had of appearing to look straight through him. <You’re a terrible liar, that’s all.>

<I’m not ly—>

<But you don’t have to tell me,> she cut him off, holding up a hand. Her face softened into a reassuring smile, which was completely out of place on her usually stern or sarcastic visage. <We’ve all got our secrets, Yasha.>

That was certainly true. While Bucky felt guilty that he couldn’t tell Nat about who he really was despite considering her a close friend, she hadn’t been as forthcoming with information as most people either. She rarely mentioned her foster family unless someone else brought them up first, and even then there wasn’t a whole lot of information she was willing to share. Bucky had come closer than the rest of their ragtag group of friends and acquaintances during a few heart-to-hearts they’d had over the last two years. It was enough for him to understand a little better why she was the way she was: a hard, cold realist with very low expectations of people and the world as a whole. The most she would tell him was that she never met her parents, and her foster parents were obsessed with bloodlines—the organization that had placed her with them said she was Pureblood just to get her in, but she actually had no idea and wasn’t about to tell _them_ that lest they kick her out onto the streets.

In another life, Bucky would have offered her a place to stay with his family if something like that happened. That wasn’t in the cards anymore, though, so he wisely kept his mouth shut and just listened.

To reciprocate, Bucky had given her some details about his childhood that _weren’t_ lies—technically. He’d told her about Steve and twisted his stories to make it sound like he’d met Sam, Clint, and T’Challa in the various places he was supposed to have lived over the years, although he never mentioned their names. He talked about some of the pranks he’d play on his little sister—who he called his cousin the way he was supposed to—and the things they would do for holidays. It was enough to ease his guilt over not divulging his biggest secret to her, even just for a little while.

If she knew all the lies he’d told her and the secrets he’d kept, he wondered if she would feel the same about how good a liar he truly was.

They sat at the café talking about nothing and everything all at once until the sun was low enough that the temperature started decreasing to tolerable levels. After that, they wandered around Moscow, Bucky moaning and complaining while Nat stopped inside various shops and fashion boutiques to examine whatever she found interesting. Most of the salespeople didn’t look twice at Winter, but there were a few stores he was thankfully forbidden to enter with a pet; the only bad thing was that Nat seemed to spend extra time in those stores just to annoy him. She made up for it later by stopping in at a pet shop once they’d made it to the Wizarding side of the city and buying a new toy mouse for Winter, who had finally succeeded in demolishing the old one a few weeks earlier. The monkey his parents had gotten her for Christmas when she was a kitten was still her favorite thing _ever_ (besides Bucky himself), but she still went out of her mind with excitement when Nat plucked the toy out of the bag and dangled it close enough for the cat to trap it between her claws.

They wandered around a bit longer before turning for home, but Bucky was stopped in his tracks when he happened to catch a glimpse of the headline on that morning’s _Daily Prophet_ in the bookstore right next to the pet shop. (Moscow was sort of like London: it had a huge Wizarding community simultaneously in the open and hidden from Muggles, and he was reminded nostalgically of Diagon Alley every time he came.) The shop catered to everything: textbooks, spell books, potions books, and ten types of Wizarding newspapers from around the world. He didn’t often keep up with the news anymore, but when he saw his mother’s serious face staring back at him, he doubled back to take a closer look.

Nat followed him inside the bookstore, watching curiously when he walked up to the rack and yanked out a copy of the _Prophet_. The headline told him everything, yet he forced himself to read the entire article regardless.

> UNDERSECRETARY SPEAKS OUT AGAINST NEW LEGISLATION
> 
> _Winifred Barnes, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, hasn’t spoken publicly in over two years after a series of attempts on her life forced her to withdraw her candidacy for Minister for Magic early in 2010. Today, however, she broke her silence and gave a speech in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic to reporters and fellow Ministry officials alike in response to new legislation proposed by Minister Pierce._
> 
> _The bill, tentatively titled the “Security Insight Protocol,” is meant to address recent concerns about Muggle knowledge of and potential violence against members of the magical community. While little is known about the specifics, the bill itself is aimed to provide greater surveillance opportunities for the Ministry to screen relations between Muggles and wizards/witches for potential threats. If the rumors are true, it will also call for an end to cooperation between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle government in Great Britain in order to provide a “Magic First” focus on “improving our own Wizarding community separate from that of Muggles.”_
> 
> _Undersecretary Barnes, who faces replacement by the end of the month, believes that this sort of law would be more harmful to our community than helpful._
> 
> _“These are the actions taken by our ancestors,” she stated at this morning’s press conference. “These are the decisions that former Ministers have already found to be inadequate for ensuring the safety and freedom of not only our own people, but also Muggles and other magical creatures as well. All this talk of safety and security, of surveillance and improvement, is a red herring. It is meant to make you forget that we live in a society where everyone is a valuable part of the whole, including those who are not like us. To pass this legislation would be tantamount to saying those who do not have magic are unworthy of being part of the world we are creating. Do not let words spur you to allow the Wizarding community of Britain to be set back decades, perhaps even centuries. They are but words.”_
> 
> _Undersecretary Barnes finished to passionate and enthusiastic applause before concluding that if this was her last act as Senior Undersecretary, or even as a Ministry official in general, she was proud that it could be an act “in service of the greater good, not the man seeking to undermine it.”_
> 
> _The Minister’s office has not commented on the speech or Undersecretary Barnes’s opinions on the proposed legislation, but it is expected that they will do so within the next few days if for no other reason than to address the questions that are now circulating._
> 
> _For more about the Security Insight Protocol – page 11_
> 
> _For more about Undersecretary Barnes’s platform – page 12_

<—sha? Yasha, what’s wrong?>

Nat’s voice reached him as if she was standing on the other end of a long tunnel, echoing around in his head until he surfaced from the article. Whatever emotion was on his face was enough to prompt outright concern from Nat, and she looked between him and the paper with a frown.

<What’s going on?>

_What’s going on? My mom left the safe house to spit in the Minister for Magic’s eye, that’s what’s going on._

<It’s just…> He supposed this little bit of truth wouldn’t hurt. <My…m-my aunt and uncle used t-to work with her. They’re big fans.>

Nodding slowly, Nat observed him with barely concealed disbelief. <Guess they must be pretty upset about her getting replaced?>

<Y-yeah. Probably.>

Bucky’s hands were trembling as he placed the _Prophet_ back on the rack and followed Nat out onto the street. He couldn’t shake the picture of his mom out of his head. His heart was racing in his chest, and he thought he might actually start hyperventilating if he couldn’t get his breathing under control. Nat gave him a minute to compose himself, but it was no use. They were only a few blocks from the apartment anyway, so he made up a quick, half-assed excuse about not feeling well (which Nat definitely didn’t believe but was kind enough not to call him on) and made his escape.

As soon as he was out of her sight, he plucked Winter off his shoulder, started running, and didn’t stop until he was back at the apartment. He slammed the door open and immediately called out for Tatiana—Mikhail— _somebody_ who knew what the fuck was going on!

Tatiana rushed out of the kitchen without delay and hastened to him when she saw the state he was in.

“Breathe, Yash—Bucky, you need to calm down, just breathe.”

She put both her hands firmly on his shoulders and kept whispering empty reassurances until Bucky was at least calm enough not to pass out in his panic. He could barely hear himself, his voice hoarse and rough, when he managed to sputter, “T-t-the _Prophet_! Mom was—she was in L-London! She w-w-went—“

“Shh, it’s all right,” cooed Tatiana, smoothing his hair down and tucking it behind his ears. She leaned in close and locked their eyes together. “She sent a message a couple of hours ago, but you were already out with Natasha and I didn’t want to worry you. She’s fine—they’re all fine. She’s back at the house, and everyone is okay.”

“They’re okay?” he repeated weakly.

“They’re just fine,” she confirmed, smiling gently at him. “She sent a note for you, if you want it.”

Bucky nodded wordlessly, unable to muster the energy to speak again, and followed Tatiana into the kitchen. Mikhail must have been at the Russian Ministry, because he was nowhere to be found as Tatiana strode to the counter and picked up the half-sheet of parchment that had been left there. The second it was in Bucky’s hands, his eyes drank in the words like a man dying of thirst being offered a glass of water.

> _My Darling Bucky,_
> 
> _I’m sure you’ve already seen the_ Prophet _by now, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you know first so you wouldn’t worry. After the speech, I came straight back to the house. Your father and sister are just fine, and so am I. We’re safe here—please don’t worry. I wouldn’t have gone at all if it weren’t for the announcement of Pierce’s ridiculous legislation last night, but I couldn’t stand by and let him fool everyone. It was worth the risk to my own life to do the right thing. I know it all turned out fine, but even if it HADN’T, I hope you can understand that._
> 
> _You and your sister are my greatest achievements and the most important things in my world, and I will do anything I can to make it a safe one for you. I love you so much, baby. If you never believe or remember anything else, you remember that._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Mom_

The knot in Bucky’s chest loosened enough for him to take a deep breath, reading over the letter again before the panic melted away and left him utterly exhausted. He exhaled heavily and leaned back against the counter, head in his hands while Winter nuzzled his arm comfortingly.

_They’re okay… They’re all right…_

 

***

 

Three days passed before Bucky felt entirely himself again, waking up to Winter nuzzling his face. It must have been late in the morning if she was trying to not-so-subtly get him out of bed to serve her breakfast, so he groaned good-naturedly and gave her a scratch behind her ears before heaving himself out of bed. The sky was a murky grey where rainclouds obscured the sun from view, and the sight was pretty dreary once he was dressed and opened the curtains. He’d thought about going out today to see about getting his new set of textbooks for the coming term, but if it was going to be threatening rain all day, he figured it was just as well that he stay in the apartment and relax. He could always go tomorrow.

When he finally wandered out to the kitchen to get breakfast—or lunch, rather, given the time—Tatiana and Mikhail were at the table conversing in soft voices. Tatiana worked from home most days, but Mikhail was usually gone by now. Bucky tried not to interrupt them as he dug around in one of the cabinets to grab a can of Winter’s food. When he turned back around, however, both of them were staring as if they had never seen him before.

No one said anything for so long that eventually Bucky nervously tried to lessen the tension in the room, which was so thick he could probably scoop it up with a spoon. “Is…there something on my face?”

Neither of his guardians reacted for a minute, hardly breaking eye contact with him to do more than glance at each other hesitantly. Goosebumps began to rise up on the skin of his arms, and Bucky had to swallow to dislodge the sudden lump that had taken up residence in his throat. He’d gotten to know Tatiana and Mikhail pretty well in the time they’d spent together when he wasn’t at school, but he’d never seen them look like this. They looked like someone had _died_.

“Bucky,” began Tatiana in a tentative, soothing voice. She was speaking English, and she called him Bucky before she called him Yasha. This was bad. “Come here, please.”

Fingers suddenly quivering, Bucky set the unopened can down on the counter and ignored Winter’s meow of disapproval, his feet moving him toward the table without his permission. Mikhail had a newspaper in front of him, one of the Russian ones that Bucky didn’t usually bother to read because it didn’t have much to do with him. As soon as he was within arm’s reach, Mikhail pushed the paper towards him at the same time Tatiana gently took his hand.

They seemed to be under the impression that he might run, and maybe for just an instant he felt like doing so. But it wasn’t one of those moments that people said it was, where the world started working like stop-motion animation. Nothing divided into flickers of awareness or retreated to only the most distant consciousness. There was no numbness or vague feeling of being outside of himself.

No. He didn’t feel any of that.

Seeing the headline felt like exploding, like he’d been blown into millions of tiny pieces that would never fit back together again because something was fundamentally missing from each and every one.

It felt like dying only to be resurrected and killed again in a loop that would continue on for all eternity.

BRITISH SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY AND FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN MINISTRY-OWNED HOME IN ROMANIA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bucky's mom's line about serving at the Minister's pleasure is an adaptation of a quote from "Political Animals."
> 
> I didn't tag the story with a warning for Major Character Death because, while Bucky's family is pretty essential to the story, I don't really see them as "main" characters. If you feel differently and prefer that I add the warning, please let me know and I will be happy to do so.
> 
> Chapter 17 will be up later today. If you would like some fluff in the meantime, [have a peek at a one-shot set the summer before Bucky's first year!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17152327)


	17. Fallout

> WIZARDING WORLD MOURNS THE LOSS OF SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY BARNES AND FAMILY
> 
> 7 JULY 2012
> 
> _In a statement this morning, Janet van Dyne, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was the bearer of devastating news. After receiving an anonymous tip that Ministry officials have been unable to trace back to its source, van Dyne and a squad of Aurors arrived in Galati, Romania to find the house Undersecretary Barnes and her family had been living in reduced to ashes and four bodies still inside._
> 
> _Winifred Barnes, her husband George (a Muggle), and their two children—James, now sixteen, and Rebecca, now ten—were formerly residing in London. After a string of assassination attempts not only directed at Undersecretary Barnes but her husband and son as well, she took her family into hiding for their safety and dropped out of the 2010 race for Minister for Magic. She was kept on under Minister Stern following his reelection and continued to work for the Ministry in absentia. Her Muggle-wizard reforms remained a contentious point between her career and various purist groups who, according to high-ranking Ministry officials, continued to threaten the Undersecretary’s safety right up to the end of her life._
> 
> _Three days ago, Undersecretary Barnes gave her first public appearance in over two years to show her lack of support for the Security Insight Protocol proposed by Minister Pierce. This morning, Aurors found Undersecretary Barnes and her family inside the Ministry-owned safe house they have been living in for the last two and a half years._
> 
> _“The four bodies are completely unidentifiable,” according to one Auror who was at the scene. “Any physical characteristics were completely destroyed, but we can confirm that their estimated heights are consistent with Madam Barnes, her husband, and their children. No one else would have been in the house at the time without the Ministry’s knowledge except the perpetrator, especially at the time of morning we estimate this to have occurred.”_
> 
> _Further investigations are currently underway, and the Wizarding community both in Great Britain and around the world wait with bated breath to learn more about what happened to the family that has defied all odds for so long._
> 
> _For more about Undersecretary Barnes’s career – page 11_
> 
> _For more about the Undersecretary’s family – page 12_

 

***

 

> UPDATE: UNDERSECRETARY’S DEATH CAUSED BY FIENDFYRE?
> 
> 8 JULY 2012
> 
> _Investigations are ongoing regarding the untimely death of Undersecretary Barnes and her family in Galati, Romania._
> 
> _We previously reported that four bodies were found in the home and confirmed to be those of Undersecretary Winifred Barnes, her husband George, and their children, James and Rebecca. The bodies have been removed from the site and transported to the Ministry of Magic for further analysis. Although everything in the house had been reduced to ash long before Ministry officials arrived, underneath the body suspected to be that of George Barnes was a scorched, snapped wand—the only item left even remotely intact besides the bodies themselves. As George Barnes was a Muggle and therefore wouldn’t have had a wand, it was originally assumed that it belonged to Undersecretary Barnes or their son James until the theory was dispelled by Janet van Dyne, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._
> 
> _“The Undersecretary had an applewood wand and James’s records indicate his was cedar,” she announced. “The wand found at the scene is currently being examined, but the wood is most certainly either ash or yew.”_
> 
> _One thing, however, is certain: it was the wand that killed the Barnes family._
> 
> _“Using a Reverse Spell, we were able to determine that the last spells from this wand before it was broken were Fiendfyre and three Killing Curses,” a high-ranking Ministry official who prefers to remain anonymous told the_ Prophet _. “This accounts for the deaths of the entire family. It is our belief that three members of the family were killed before the house was set on fire, and the fourth died in the blaze. At this juncture, we cannot begin to speculate which member of the family was alive at that time, but we will provide more information as it becomes available.”_
> 
> _While the investigation continues, Minister Pierce gave a speech before the Ministry this morning to honor the work and life of the late Undersecretary Barnes. Although the speech was lengthy and dealt a great deal with the many accomplishments of Barnes’s career, Pierce had this to say in closing:_
> 
> _“I will admit that Undersecretary Barnes and I have not always seen eye-to-eye on many things, politically or personally. There have been many occasions where we fought outright, neither of us willing to cede as much as an inch of ground to the other on the political battlefield. In spite of this, I can honestly say that Winifred Barnes is and always shall be one of the most inspirational, admirable individuals I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and working with. The Wizarding world has suffered a great loss, and those responsible_ will _be brought to justice.”_
> 
> _For more about Undersecretary Barnes’s career – page 11_
> 
> _For more about the 2010 election – page 12_

 

***

 

> BRITISH WITCHES AND WIZARDS MOURN UNDERSECRETARY BARNES AND FAMILY – PUBLIC FUNERAL TO BE HELD ONE WEEK AFTER TRAGEDY
> 
> 9 JULY 2012

 

***

 

> UPDATE: SUSPECT ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH UNDERSECRETARY’S DEATH
> 
> 11 JULY 2012
> 
> _In the ongoing investigation of the death of Undersecretary Barnes and her family, high-ranking Ministry officials confirmed this afternoon that they have made an arrest._
> 
> _The suspect, Frank Castle, was identified and apprehended in Poland after the investigation turned up the wand used to commit the crime at the Undersecretary’s safe house in Galati, Romania. The twelve-inch yew wand was snapped in half and found under what has been confirmed to be the body of George Barnes, the Undersecretary’s husband. It was also revealed to have killed three members of the family before setting the house ablaze using Fiendfyre with the last member presumably still alive inside. After tracing the wand to a small manufacturer in Ukraine, it was identified to be licensed to Castle and the arrest was made within the hour._
> 
> _Ministry officials have not released further information regarding the interrogation but promise to make it available to the public as soon as possible._
> 
> _In related news, the public funeral and vigil for Barnes and her family will be held this Saturday, 14 July, beginning at 8:00 in the morning in the Atrium of the Ministry. All are invited to attend. Closed-casket services will be held for friends and associates at 7:00 before the doors open to the general public._

 

***

 

> PUBLIC FUNERAL HELD FOR FORMER UNDERSECRETARY WINIFRED BARNES AND FAMILY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC – PICTURES ON PAGE 11
> 
> 14 JULY 2012

 

***

 

> UPDATE: MAGICAL ACADEMY POSSIBLY IMPLICATED IN MURDER OF FORMER UNDERSECRETARY BARNES
> 
> 16 JULY 2012
> 
> _Investigations are ongoing in the matter of the death of former Undersecretary Barnes and her family on 7 July._
> 
> _Two suspects have now been arrested in connection with the crime: Frank Castle and Wilson Fisk. Castle, whose wand was found to have cast the spells that killed the family of four, was arrested and taken to the Ministry for questioning last week. After liberal use of Veritaserum, one of the Aurors leading the case said Castle identified Fisk as his accomplice. Fisk was later apprehended after a confrontation with Aurors, two of whom were injured in the process and are in St. Mungo’s with critical injuries._
> 
> _In a lengthy interrogation occurring last Friday, Aurors claim that Fisk admitted to abducting multiple Ministry officials over the last few weeks in an attempt to determine the former Undersecretary’s whereabouts. His questioning led him to Janet van Dyne, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and now reported Secret Keeper for the Barneses, two days before the crime._
> 
> _When the_ Prophet _asked van Dyne about these allegations, she claimed not to have any memory of such an incident—nor, in fact, any memories whatsoever from the time period Fisk claims to have temporarily detained her. This, alongside similar accounts from the officials that Fisk claimed to have questioned, corroborates his admission of using Memory Charms to keep them from alerting the Barneses to his and Castle’s arrival during the early morning hours on 7 July._
> 
> _The officials in question and van Dyne are currently undergoing treatment at St. Mungo’s to remove the Memory Charms, but there has been no success thus far._
> 
> _With Castle and Fisk firmly behind bars in the wizard prison Azkaban while they await trial before the Wizengamot, more questions have come up along with the answers they provided. Upon their arrival and processing at Azkaban, both wizards were found to have the Hydra logo tattooed on their left shoulders: a skull with many tentacles. That immediately raised the suspicions of the Aurors working the case and led them to another potential tie between the two: both Castle and Fisk are eighteen-year-old recent graduates of Durmstrang Institute._
> 
> _Upon contacting Durmstrang for comment, Ministry officials were told Headmaster Johann Schmidt was unavailable. Aurors reportedly arrived at his Berlin home on Sunday to find it empty. After questioning his neighbors and colleagues, the Aurors managed to ascertain that Schmidt has not been seen or heard from since the day before the murder of the Barnes family, and have put out a bulletin for members of the Wizarding community worldwide to inform the Ministry of Magic should they come into contact with Schmidt so that he can be contacted for questioning._
> 
> _Two Durmstrang students, one missing headmaster. Coincidence or conspiracy? More to follow pending further investigation._

 

***

 

> MINISTER DECLARES NEW UNDERSECRETARY – FORMER RUSSIAN AUROR VASILY KARPOV APPOINTED SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY IN WAKE OF BARNES MURDER
> 
> 29 JULY 2012

 

***

 

> DURMSTRANG INSTITUTE CLOSED INDEFINITELY PENDING FORMAL INVESTIGATION – STUDENTS TRANSFERRED TO NEIGHBORING SCHOOLS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
> 
> 30 JULY 2012
> 
> _The Ministry has been working closely with many leaders of the Wizarding communities throughout Europe in the wake of former Senior Undersecretary Barnes’s murder to determine the future of Durmstrang Institute, the prestigious magical academy that was recently implicated in the death of Barnes and her family._
> 
> _Frank Castle and Wilson Fisk, recent graduates of Durmstrang Institute, were found guilty before the Wizengamot on Friday of the following crimes: four counts of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, eleven counts of breaking and entering, ten counts of abduction, destruction of government property, four counts of unlawful use of dark magic, and three counts of using Unforgivable Curses. They were afterwards sentenced to life in Azkaban prison, although members of the Wizengamot are petitioning the Chief Warlock to execute them instead._
> 
> _Durmstrang headmaster Johann Schmidt is still missing after his apparent disappearance the day before the Barneses were murdered, and no valid tips have been provided to the Ministry for investigation. With the connections between the two former Durmstrang students, who are both also confessed members of the terrorist organization known as Hydra, and the missing headmaster, questions have arisen as to whether Hydra and Durmstrang are tied together given the organization’s Eastern European roots._
> 
> _Minister Pierce indicated yesterday that he has no jurisdiction over Durmstrang Institute and can therefore make no official decisions, but he has demanded that the countries overseeing the school do their due diligence. His demands were met with approval both from the British Wizarding community and its European neighbors._
> 
> _This morning, Minister Lukin of Russia agreed in a statement from the Ministry in Moscow._
> 
> _“It is the responsibility of those in power to protect those who rely on them,” he said to gathered officials, “including and most especially students who attend a school to learn what they need to be productive members of our global Wizarding society. It is therefore our decision to close Durmstrang Institute until such time as a formal, thorough investigation can be carried out to determine whether any connection exists between the academy, Hydra, and the death of one of the greatest political figures of our age and her family. Anyone culpable for the actions of these two misguided former students, should these ties exist, will be brought to justice, and any changes that need to be made to ensure the school’s effectiveness and safety for its students will be enacted. This may take weeks, months, or even years, but we shall be diligent in our dedication to this work.”_
> 
> _Students planning to return to Durmstrang this year will be reassigned to either Beauxbatons Academy of Magic or Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry depending on their place of residence. More information will be distributed to the individual students and their families as we approach the new term._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The sequel to this story is almost entirely written, the first chapter of which will be posted tomorrow. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Have a scene you'd like to see? Leave a prompt in the comments!


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